tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29734311501204467272017-10-16T18:48:46.341-07:00One Dumb Travel BumCapt Nemo grows a beard and seeks wisdom. But mostly just gets lost and slaps his forehead a lotNemo Taylornoreply@blogger.comBlogger226125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-29665124464896546252016-12-17T09:22:00.000-08:002016-12-17T09:40:42.579-08:00Riga: My New Favorite Place in the World<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vKZRWgE3v0o/WFVmNqdC3MI/AAAAAAAA3Qg/Lb9FBfHb5aMthC3_rGn1r7sGAoGpDLoWQCLcB/s1600/SAM_1343.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vKZRWgE3v0o/WFVmNqdC3MI/AAAAAAAA3Qg/Lb9FBfHb5aMthC3_rGn1r7sGAoGpDLoWQCLcB/s400/SAM_1343.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture perfect cobbletone Riga</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">Riga!</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">So crazy. So fun. Riga, I don't really know you, but I love you. You got it going on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN">Your little ancient downtown is cuter than even Tallin, more cobblestoney goodness even than Prague. Those narrow winding streets, a mix of sunlight and shadow and corners and hidden doors, that just invite a travel bum to get lost on purpose.</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v_LqsJ3q1Fc/WFVvF9bIIaI/AAAAAAAA3Rs/v-aLy5TuVbMfzTI8noqSvs2Qv-bKwhTuACEw/s1600/SAM_1370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v_LqsJ3q1Fc/WFVvF9bIIaI/AAAAAAAA3Rs/v-aLy5TuVbMfzTI8noqSvs2Qv-bKwhTuACEw/s640/SAM_1370.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TgiVU6eyW8w/WFVu2HMmsuI/AAAAAAAA3Rk/Ag2OQXsOioIhzBLKBcnursAxhuPDf33_QCEw/s1600/SAM_1366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TgiVU6eyW8w/WFVu2HMmsuI/AAAAAAAA3Rk/Ag2OQXsOioIhzBLKBcnursAxhuPDf33_QCEw/s640/SAM_1366.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1G4ACHISfIE/WFVuqPTlzrI/AAAAAAAA3Rg/WNPCRT08wFkzOsCFUQ3BdwGIbTj-VJ6gACEw/s1600/SAM_1362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1G4ACHISfIE/WFVuqPTlzrI/AAAAAAAA3Rg/WNPCRT08wFkzOsCFUQ3BdwGIbTj-VJ6gACEw/s640/SAM_1362.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mYF4TtL_Foc/WFVvVpys-4I/AAAAAAAA3R0/FwUAnOhQLOsjuB-lqwjxjl7NPkTfSrU3QCEw/s1600/SAM_1388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mYF4TtL_Foc/WFVvVpys-4I/AAAAAAAA3R0/FwUAnOhQLOsjuB-lqwjxjl7NPkTfSrU3QCEw/s640/SAM_1388.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span lang="EN">Your gothic church is so darn, well, gothey. After the climb up the spire, what a view! That fresh salty breeze from the Baltic ocean.&nbsp;The town square was bursting with open air tables and mugs of cold beer and street entertainers and joyful busker music. Perhaps the best part of Riga is the circle of green parks that surround the old town, with a river running through it all. Endless fountains and flowers and nooks and glens are to be found as one wanders aimlessly, lost in the green.</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B-N1q-JR8-A/WFVnwWk6agI/AAAAAAAA3Qo/inoboH59txAx4viJMxOSBE9VJJg5NXKEwCLcB/s1600/SAM_1277.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B-N1q-JR8-A/WFVnwWk6agI/AAAAAAAA3Qo/inoboH59txAx4viJMxOSBE9VJJg5NXKEwCLcB/s640/SAM_1277.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kwqk5fj2DxY/WFVnwcZTOyI/AAAAAAAA3Qs/TWyrzgemnBQDXNyETzfS_r3e9nzj-KzBQCLcB/s1600/SAM_1279.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kwqk5fj2DxY/WFVnwcZTOyI/AAAAAAAA3Qs/TWyrzgemnBQDXNyETzfS_r3e9nzj-KzBQCLcB/s640/SAM_1279.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GuBn0klIudE/WFVvYHNgXpI/AAAAAAAA3R4/qsrJuge2RqM6P38ys6AHzUzxpVK15fv5gCEw/s1600/SAM_1395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="324" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GuBn0klIudE/WFVvYHNgXpI/AAAAAAAA3R4/qsrJuge2RqM6P38ys6AHzUzxpVK15fv5gCEw/s640/SAM_1395.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LXtwEunHyPU/WFVtk1xSmnI/AAAAAAAA3Ro/jwN4aNFeNawAS6_gvbsrqi5OtNsRFM_fACEw/s1600/SAM_1299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LXtwEunHyPU/WFVtk1xSmnI/AAAAAAAA3Ro/jwN4aNFeNawAS6_gvbsrqi5OtNsRFM_fACEw/s640/SAM_1299.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shooting real Russian weapons under a school stadium is SOP in Eastern Europe</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2neYbV2nSRs/WFVtoz_ioEI/AAAAAAAA3Ro/R8X9eD7_zPsXPhV4x7DSNvIgGWBs49X9gCEw/s1600/SAM_1300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2neYbV2nSRs/WFVtoz_ioEI/AAAAAAAA3Ro/R8X9eD7_zPsXPhV4x7DSNvIgGWBs49X9gCEw/s640/SAM_1300.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9DLo9t5JkPw/WFVuL9MyHWI/AAAAAAAA3Ro/xJiLJSlFtpg9DXjAxuJ4By9f5-s56YrUQCEw/s1600/SAM_1308.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9DLo9t5JkPw/WFVuL9MyHWI/AAAAAAAA3Ro/xJiLJSlFtpg9DXjAxuJ4By9f5-s56YrUQCEw/s640/SAM_1308.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another night at the hostel begins ...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6d6VCuyx8aA/WFVuXKlpaUI/AAAAAAAA3Ro/SiJDm1LH4cEJXso25jgzrdaDnF8wHwXRgCEw/s1600/SAM_1319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6d6VCuyx8aA/WFVuXKlpaUI/AAAAAAAA3Ro/SiJDm1LH4cEJXso25jgzrdaDnF8wHwXRgCEw/s640/SAM_1319.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some warm-ups at the hostel, ... yeah, ...</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN"><br />I happened to arrive during a summer beer festival, which produced a grin on my face. "This is great!" I exclaimed to one of the locals. He looked at me funny. "We have beer festival every weekend in summer." A beer festival every weekend? I stared stupidly, eyes wide in puppy love. After oversampling the many many varieties of locally crafted beer, I stumbled back to my room to recuperate for the evening nightlife.</span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MmfpvSvHPn8/WFVvwtLJZcI/AAAAAAAA3SE/VwGBvAWSDSwztRUiIODJIi_JPWoBbARXQCEw/s1600/SAM_1397.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MmfpvSvHPn8/WFVvwtLJZcI/AAAAAAAA3SE/VwGBvAWSDSwztRUiIODJIi_JPWoBbARXQCEw/s320/SAM_1397.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bNPYZbMV8v4/WFVvkyRsGnI/AAAAAAAA3R8/c2b-x-t7RmgF8afoG7wkCXZzEoQrWnK0ACEw/s1600/SAM_1401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="364" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bNPYZbMV8v4/WFVvkyRsGnI/AAAAAAAA3R8/c2b-x-t7RmgF8afoG7wkCXZzEoQrWnK0ACEw/s640/SAM_1401.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This truck serves hot food in the front and cold fresh beer in the boot. Of course!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WDhIQ9SzFVI/WFVvnDUVFhI/AAAAAAAA3SA/Q68GIlVL1QwCDdsK2BBgbsev5v_MMCmnwCEw/s1600/SAM_1403.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WDhIQ9SzFVI/WFVvnDUVFhI/AAAAAAAA3SA/Q68GIlVL1QwCDdsK2BBgbsev5v_MMCmnwCEw/s640/SAM_1403.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local craftmanship. Or something. I don't really remember this part. *Burrrp* scuse me</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-89PsP8oakmE/WFVv2Kqcl1I/AAAAAAAA3SM/2KZQYR4ocWEiZT04CESt-Z-MCWHza9amACEw/s1600/SAM_1408.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-89PsP8oakmE/WFVv2Kqcl1I/AAAAAAAA3SM/2KZQYR4ocWEiZT04CESt-Z-MCWHza9amACEw/s640/SAM_1408.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frosty</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 10pt; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><br /></div></div><span lang="EN">It seemed there were two types of women in Riga: 1) those with the Russian fashion sense (read: high heels, tight short skirts, bright colors and leopard print), and 2) those with a more funky Euro hipster look. And so, perhaps it is no surprise that something curious happens each summer throughout Eastern Europe. All the frothy lads in England and Australia have long heard the myth of the beauties of the East: how they (supposedly) love Westerners with their money and prospects. With the EU, no passport is required anymore to the Baltics, and these salivating packs of testosterone believe they can just show up in places like Riga, Krakow, Budapest, and the like, and they will be mobbed by gorgeous women.</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">Now, of course you run into Aussies and Kiwis and Brits and Canadians no matter where you travel in the world, and usually it's a true pleasure. Here you've been squinting at your word dictionary, trying not to choke on the Chinese word for snake soup, and a Westerner appears and says, "Good day chap! This place looks dodgier than a set of chuffed nuts!" And you look up, eyes wide, a tear forming in the corner of your eye, mouth forming a round "o" of joy. You realize you can have a real conversation in English for the first time in days. "Thank God bro! Hey man, is this the word for Snake Soup or Your Wife is Hot?"&nbsp;</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">And so it was with not too much surprise when I arrived at my hostel to find a mob of Aussies playing various "get smashed boys, tonight we pillage!" games. Most of them involved a deck of cards, which after each play directed someone to immediately inhale a beer. Or something even more lethal. There are a few of these popular party-hostels in Riga. I joined up in the pre-gaming, and soon realized that the entire group of Aussies were from the single town of Brisbane. They had come together with one purpose: to smash exotic Baltic babes. In Riga, these hostels organize pub crawls every night of the week. Let me repeat: if you stay at this hostel, you do a lethal pub crawl day after day after day until your liver turns black, dissolves, and evaporates from your pores. Over the course of this first night, from one pub and club to the next, I ran into 3 other stag parties, all from England or Australia.</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NwTshrHC1sw/WFVwLuMvP1I/AAAAAAAA3SU/MitITG_nrdU1u5yvsveY6LJ13TYCu-uQACEw/s1600/SAM_1409.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NwTshrHC1sw/WFVwLuMvP1I/AAAAAAAA3SU/MitITG_nrdU1u5yvsveY6LJ13TYCu-uQACEw/s400/SAM_1409.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When you have long hair and beard all the boys want to size up your manscaping</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sgq9RflHY0U/WFVv2FwOzWI/AAAAAAAA3SI/XpanbijYGFw9vFjzVzediWSuwB9M50wGgCEw/s1600/SAM_1410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sgq9RflHY0U/WFVv2FwOzWI/AAAAAAAA3SI/XpanbijYGFw9vFjzVzediWSuwB9M50wGgCEw/s400/SAM_1410.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fJj8roOpSXI/WFVwXcHLNEI/AAAAAAAA3SY/THrfLl-W4-46rAgfCCPC0hWqUSzw9LypwCEw/s1600/SAM_1412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fJj8roOpSXI/WFVwXcHLNEI/AAAAAAAA3SY/THrfLl-W4-46rAgfCCPC0hWqUSzw9LypwCEw/s400/SAM_1412.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O1apPjjPbS4/WFVwLX1lOXI/AAAAAAAA3SQ/lQ_CnzgmEwQljZBwRPxFjOVmnBFE8LQGgCEw/s1600/SAM_1414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="470" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O1apPjjPbS4/WFVwLX1lOXI/AAAAAAAA3SQ/lQ_CnzgmEwQljZBwRPxFjOVmnBFE8LQGgCEw/s640/SAM_1414.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reggae time, any country all da time mon</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rRFfdUWlOdo/WFVwfdWx2yI/AAAAAAAA3Sg/bsJhr-hhOu4Malv9EzXsRAn_W9hpALhEQCEw/s1600/SAM_1416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rRFfdUWlOdo/WFVwfdWx2yI/AAAAAAAA3Sg/bsJhr-hhOu4Malv9EzXsRAn_W9hpALhEQCEw/s640/SAM_1416.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span lang="EN">The night was a can of mixed nuts to say the least. Some young girls were definitely fans of the tanned, healthy, deafening lads, and I have to say it IS a lot of fun to surf a wave of merry drunk Aussies. A round of drinks were shouted out, and drank, and I couldn't help but notice a small group of girls head off as fast as they could to the other corner.</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">However.</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">If you've ever been with an Aussie Stag Party in full hurricane mode, you already know full well that this didn't slow them down in the slightest. They spread out, like a pack of hunting lions. Or, maybe, judging by their wobbles, a pack of drunken hunting penguins.</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">And, just at the moment where the penguins were about to pounce and all hell break loose, Riga did something amazing. The DJ began to play "Macarena." Yes, that Macarena. The one we all did a line dance to back in ... when was it? 1996? Apparently that song was still cool in Riga 15 years later. All of a sudden, everyone in the club formed into lines and began the Macarena dance.</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">I couldn't believe my eyes. And, ooooohh yes, the girls knew all the steps. Well, that's all the encouragement any of us needed. Like any good Rigans, we jumped onto the dance floor and joined in.</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">You may forget how infectious this song actually is. Something bizarre happened. I noticed that my body was putting my hands in the air and my mouth started shouting "Heeeeeeey, Macarena!" With that, I fell in love with quirky fun Riga just a little bit more.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">People here were a marked contrast. The older generation seemed worn down and worn out. Yet, this young generation, recently freed from Russian occupation, were the opposite, They had a vibrant, bursting energy in themselves. The wore outlandish fun clothing, partied and danced and didn't mind being goofy and fun. As if they didn't have a care in the world. People seemed to really live in the moment more than almost any other place I'd ever been.<br /><br />This contrast between the older and younger generation was jarring. And it struck me that perhaps I would find some answers in the Occupation Museum in town. What I found there, I will discuss in my next post.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i4UoGqz8IcY/WFVwYtz3QhI/AAAAAAAA3Sc/AzaGL9Ko5XYbBAAVGhp2GsjlYPpIYpYjgCEw/s1600/SAM_1418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="452" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i4UoGqz8IcY/WFVwYtz3QhI/AAAAAAAA3Sc/AzaGL9Ko5XYbBAAVGhp2GsjlYPpIYpYjgCEw/s640/SAM_1418.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 16px;">I ended up the night having a deep talk with this guru</td></tr></tbody></table></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-15810981357354684122016-11-19T18:09:00.006-08:002016-11-19T18:12:17.437-08:00Tallin: Return to the West<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UGFh2fC0Dzk/WDEEv2El9DI/AAAAAAAATrM/tVy-fYrr1XcS-_WRRCrGuavPOfXLSpDEQCEw/s1600/SAM_1140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UGFh2fC0Dzk/WDEEv2El9DI/AAAAAAAATrM/tVy-fYrr1XcS-_WRRCrGuavPOfXLSpDEQCEw/s400/SAM_1140.JPG" width="286" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feeling bullish in Tallin</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">Although Russia is thought to part of Europe, it isn't. Russia is its own animal: forever half European, half Asian, yet neither. When you look at Russian faces you can make out the just so slightly narrower eyes in both men and women. Perhaps this is an advantage in terms of beauty, as it gives an air of exoticism. Yet when you first meet a stranger, the eyes are cold. Not trusting. It reminds me more of China than, say, England or Spain or Brazil. Americans, perhaps the friendliest to strangers of any culture in the world, often complain of European 'rudeness'. (Europeans of course view the easy American smile as suspicious, ignorant, and fake, even if it may not be.)<o:p></o:p></span><br /><br />Which is quite ironic. Because it is Europeans that often complain of Russian 'rudeness'. I was once in a high-end nightclub in Moscow, talking to a go-go dancer in a glittery short dress, who had just descended from her dance cage and spoke surprisingly excellent English. And she told me something that stayed with me. She said, "When you meet a Russian, they don't smile. But if they do eventually smile, you know it is real. Genuine. And once you become friends, Russians are the most loyal and true friends you will ever have."<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PuiH9qYxmX0/WDEE8zNB0fI/AAAAAAAATrQ/KTaVM3tH1aQ9RTOuN_SjIQObHStrNwj-ACEw/s1600/SAM_1143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PuiH9qYxmX0/WDEE8zNB0fI/AAAAAAAATrQ/KTaVM3tH1aQ9RTOuN_SjIQObHStrNwj-ACEw/s320/SAM_1143.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tallin whimsy</td></tr></tbody></table>That stayed with me for a long time. Eastern Europeans and Russians have been through hard times. They do not present an easy smile to strangers. But they are fiercely loyal to their friends and family. I had deep respect for that idea. However, it is a situation that can be difficult for the traveler, who does not always have time to get past the initial cold stares.<br /><br />So it was as if a weight was lifted when I finally arrived to Tallin in Estonia, one of the perfectly happy small little corners of Europe. In Russia, things can feel heavy. The machinery works but sputters. In Tallin, just a short jaunt from Russia, things suddenly felt clean and easy. Everything worked. The parks were green and pretty and full of fountains. The espresso tasted delicious and people were genuinely nice to each other. There was no crime to speak of. It felt almost Disney-esque, but without all the bullshit and plastic. Tallin was a little tiny utopia, dancing in the sunshine, a stone's throw away from a shadow.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zT4z1sgm6fE/WDEE9DKRkrI/AAAAAAAATrU/Wm0ZCdArm80f86yHYn1zctwlaEbFE1qMACEw/s1600/SAM_1151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zT4z1sgm6fE/WDEE9DKRkrI/AAAAAAAATrU/Wm0ZCdArm80f86yHYn1zctwlaEbFE1qMACEw/s400/SAM_1151.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At day's end, everyone piles onto the fun train to go home</td></tr></tbody></table>Estonia's old town reminded me of Bruges. A supremely pleasant place to while away a few days, exploring the old cobblestones streets of the city center with its piles of outdoor cafes and beer trolleys. A day might consist of climbing a few gothic church towers, then plopping yourself at a table with tall cold Pohjala and listening to the&nbsp;cheerful little pop-up busker bands.<br /><br />I stand by my claim that borders are wormholes. The distance you cross is nothing. Yet, each side is a different universe. It is always a bit jolting crossing these boundaries. Just as I was taken aback crossing from Mongolia to Russia, I was again feeling almost out-of-body bizarre in "have-no-cares" Tallin after leaving stern mother Russia.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kPPYHMqE58E/WDEE9HmdekI/AAAAAAAATrY/f_rKOCiDd0gMsvfvB8aAA_CqVRJFXTyHgCEw/s1600/SAM_1160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kPPYHMqE58E/WDEE9HmdekI/AAAAAAAATrY/f_rKOCiDd0gMsvfvB8aAA_CqVRJFXTyHgCEw/s640/SAM_1160.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Narrow old town streets</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X5Ypp0MgKz8/WDEE9KOqerI/AAAAAAAATrc/rdzgHNwL2KIm0JrmhHnpj-AX8rss0RtjACEw/s1600/SAM_1165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="416" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X5Ypp0MgKz8/WDEE9KOqerI/AAAAAAAATrc/rdzgHNwL2KIm0JrmhHnpj-AX8rss0RtjACEw/s640/SAM_1165.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proof I am definitely back into Western culture</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rKWpKh0yMII/WDEE9VsyGLI/AAAAAAAATrg/dl3COXatWXU2F9x5GxWM8hmCHPYbz2RcQCEw/s1600/SAM_1176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rKWpKh0yMII/WDEE9VsyGLI/AAAAAAAATrg/dl3COXatWXU2F9x5GxWM8hmCHPYbz2RcQCEw/s640/SAM_1176.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old and new</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-72605442453791931772016-11-19T15:53:00.002-08:002016-11-19T17:15:04.358-08:00Best Cities in the World, part III<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_O8b5SHlgcs/WDDkFs6ZxzI/AAAAAAAATqs/zecg3Ym4Ig0p2pth4PBnpMkJQKCUeAe5ACLcB/s1600/qtown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_O8b5SHlgcs/WDDkFs6ZxzI/AAAAAAAATqs/zecg3Ym4Ig0p2pth4PBnpMkJQKCUeAe5ACLcB/s400/qtown.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queenstown: Best city in the world?</td></tr></tbody></table>The candy spires of <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2014/11/moscow-part-ii-kremlin-candy.html">Moscow's St Basil</a>. The wine, song, and tango of <a href="https://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/11/02/women-wine-tango-beef-pinch-me/">Buenos Aires</a>. The trippy Gaudi art and nonstop party of Barcelona. The gothic beauty of Prague. The pure melting pot cosmopolitan energy of New York.<br /><br />What makes a city special, unique, and wonderful?<br /><br />What are the best cities in the world?<br /><br />I've been to over 50 countries and there are certain places that imprint in your mind forever. Northern Zanzibar's pure, <a href="https://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/09/16/sand-in-my-toes-finally/">remote white-sand beaches</a>. The humbling, awe-inspiring <a href="https://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/08/02/the-summit/">view of Everest from Kala Pattar</a>. The overgrown romantic jungle ruins of <a href="https://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/07/02/raiders-of-the-lost-lingam/">Ta Prohm temple</a> in Cambodia.<br /><br />But there is something irresistible and exciting about landing in a new city for the first time and setting out to explore. Cities have energy. Bustling people. Incredible churches and temples. Famous museums. Architectural wonders. But most of all, cities are where you meet the locals. Wandering down into a cave bar in Prague, or getting invited to a table of <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2011/06/chinese-bar-night.html">raucous Chinese in Lijiang</a>, or having a tall blonde beauty <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2015/11/fidel-castro-hot-date-and-meaning-of-it.html">buy you a shot of vodka in St Petersburg</a> and venting about the problems of Russian men. It is in cities where I have felt the most excited about meeting people and getting my first sense of a new country.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_hqswlfeRVg/WDDkc2UatqI/AAAAAAAATqw/XkM2MwWz-6QpVbqxN-zesC3V5tWlm9vggCLcB/s1600/capetown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_hqswlfeRVg/WDDkc2UatqI/AAAAAAAATqw/XkM2MwWz-6QpVbqxN-zesC3V5tWlm9vggCLcB/s400/capetown.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Captivating Capetown</td></tr></tbody></table>Now, these are completely subjective rankings, and they are mostly "first impressions." I realize that you cannot truly understand a city in a few days. That said, sometimes meeting a new city is a bit like locking eyes in a bar. It's love at first sight. Puppy love, perhaps.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_bfubaAozk/WDDlMlKJvrI/AAAAAAAATq4/qyedL3aN2ZgEX3JLaXwSmMoJS5_-chVogCLcB/s1600/vancouver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_bfubaAozk/WDDlMlKJvrI/AAAAAAAATq4/qyedL3aN2ZgEX3JLaXwSmMoJS5_-chVogCLcB/s400/vancouver.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vancouver and the Canadian Northwest</td></tr></tbody></table>A couple of notes:<br />1) It's only fair to rank major cities / capitals against one another, so I didn't include (in this list) gorgeous towns like Hood River (Oregon), Bruges in Belgium, <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2015/02/i-was-born-in-small-town-in-russia.html">Suzdal in Russia</a>, or picture perfect Hallstatt in Austria. Hmm. It's clear I need to make this other list though! So many beautiful towns in the world.<br />2) I have a "1 city per country" rule because otherwise this list would get too long. Each city listed is my favorite of that country.<br />3) For the US, which has more amazing cities than I could possibly ever rank and list here, I have chosen "Southern California" as a placeholder somewhat arbitrarily. Seattle and Portland have better outdoor choices, San Francisco and New York are more true cities, but Southern California is not a terrible place with its perfect weather, beaches, mountains, wine regions, and up-and-coming downtown hot spots. This list is not to rank US cities; rather, it is to rank international cities against a pretty nice US region. Perhaps in another post I will rank US cities. (Feel free to swap "Southern California" with the US city of your choice in your mind.)<br />4) My taste in cities is probably different than yours, so it's only fair that I list my criteria. Basically, I take 5 categories and rank each city on a scale of 1-10, than just add up the totals to get my rankings. Simple. As you can see, for me, it's not just about the city itself. It's really important that a city is located in a cool region and has outdoorsy awesome as well. I realize that's not important for everyone, but for me, it's yuuuuuuge.<br /><br />My categories:<br />1) Postcardiness -- is a city beautiful? Does it have lots of pretty parks, fountains, cool buildings? Does it have a certain charm and atmosphere? Does it make you fall in love right off the plane?<br />2) Things to do in the city -- is the city bustling with interesting museums, hopping bars, great food, trendy night clubs, and postcard attractions?<br />3) Beaches / mountains / outdoors -- is the city located in a region near beaches, mountains, or other awesome outdoor activities? (Queenstown, New Zealand gets a perfect 10 in this category.)<br />4) People / food / culture -- are people closed off and xenophobic or do you get <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2011/06/chinese-bar-night.html">hauled up onto a Yunnan stage</a> and asked to chug beers? Do you feel like you are in an exotic place, far removed from your comfortable living room back home? Is there <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2011/06/blood-of-snake.html">live snake on the menu</a>?<br />5) Liveability -- does it feel safe to walk down the street? how expensive is the city? What is traffic like? Are there jobs other than <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2011/07/beijing-ing.html">selling coachroaches on a stick</a>? Could I see myself truly living here, munching kebabs and mint tea, enjoying my airy man-skirt on the veranda?<br /><br />That's it! Pretty simple right? Now, this is the 3rd time I've done a ranking like this, and as I've visited new cities it was clear that I had to update the list. If you are interested, here is <a href="https://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/10/03/best-city-in-the-world/">my original ranking</a>, and <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2010/12/best-cities-in-world-part-ii.html">my 2nd update</a>. I will have a 4th update after posting my travels through Eastern Europe and the Middle East soon ... for now, here is the 3rd set of rankings. Enjoy!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fcMj05_vpJo/WDDlvnViI_I/AAAAAAAATq8/VipTKs6EphUCP6I3g-P-TYrxNciGCb9DACLcB/s1600/City%2BRankings%2B3c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fcMj05_vpJo/WDDlvnViI_I/AAAAAAAATq8/VipTKs6EphUCP6I3g-P-TYrxNciGCb9DACLcB/s640/City%2BRankings%2B3c.jpg" width="529" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Time to pack my bags ...</td></tr></tbody></table>Sooo many questions right?<br /><br />I will try to anticipate a few here:<br />Q) Why did you rank Rio as a "1" in livability?<br />A) Rio is incredibly beautiful and fun. At the same time it feels fairly dangerous. When I swam at Copacabana I watched (and smelled) raw sewage flow right into the ocean.<br /><br />Q) Why did Kyoto only get a "5" in livability?<br />A) Kyoto, and Japan in general, feels difficult for a foreigner to penetrate past the surface. There are certain bars and parts of the city where, as a gaijin, I will never be allowed. And Japan's cities are quite expensive. Despite all this, Kyoto came out near the top of the rankings so that says something.<br /><br />Q) How dare you pick Munich over Berlin for Germany's best city?<br />A) I love Berlin, it's a riot. However, there is something very nice about getting a pleasant buzz at a centuries-old beer hall, then walking through a park with nude sunbathers to watch river surfers.<br /><br />Q) Where is Seattle? Or New York? Or San Francisco? Are you crazy or just stupid?<br />A) Sure am! My blog is called One <b>Dumb</b> Travel Bum after all. Please read my notes above as to why I didn't include all these US cities ...<br /><br />Q) Where is Copenhagen? Or Oslo? Or Dubai? Or Iceland?<br />A) I haven't been to these cities yet. Excuse me while I cry ... ok ... I'm back. Reykjavik, Copenhagen, you are both very, very high on my must see list.<br /><br />Q) Va te faire foutre! How can the city of light be ranked as a mid-level city?!<br />A) Excusez-moi. Sorry to burst your bubble. Just kidding. I'm not sorry.<br /><br />Ooooooo!!! This was fun! Excuse me, I need to look for houses in Capetown ...Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-71861265633166073982016-07-19T21:30:00.000-07:002016-11-07T18:40:56.981-08:00Top 10 Best (and Horribly Bad) Ways to Travel<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D_QgJQYTjcI/VxmU92Z-e-I/AAAAAAAAS6k/GbxwjBFZNHMH6If88JyFyhz-dibVx46sgCLcB/s1600/gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D_QgJQYTjcI/VxmU92Z-e-I/AAAAAAAAS6k/GbxwjBFZNHMH6If88JyFyhz-dibVx46sgCLcB/s1600/gallery.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luxury Train: nothing beats falling asleep in a cloud of fluffy clickety-clack white noise</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">The following is my ranking of preferred modes of travel, from delight to outright terror, based upon personal experience:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN">1)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN">Deluxe sleeper train. I love you. Take me back. I won't leave you again this time. I promise. Why are you leaving the station, baby? &nbsp;... wait !!</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-alhdzXTeRvs/VxmVTGKhMMI/AAAAAAAAS6o/nN9AXe_18HkG4nLagtbs_tACASXY9lL4ACLcB/s1600/etihad1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-alhdzXTeRvs/VxmVTGKhMMI/AAAAAAAAS6o/nN9AXe_18HkG4nLagtbs_tACASXY9lL4ACLcB/s400/etihad1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Etihad: where skin-deep beauty still matters</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">&nbsp;<span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">2)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">First class flight on Middle Eastern oil-rich vanity airline (yes, I mean Emirates. Oh my god. I love Emirates. Etihad, close 2nd place. But you're no Emirates.)</span></span><br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN">3)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN">Crappy overflowing train where the toilets are holes in the floor and the only place to sit in between cars with legs dangling over the side. (Any train is a good train in my book.)<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lEtDs7kCaOo/VxmWn0qv7rI/AAAAAAAAS64/JZlIM5in4P8vXDPCNEFodurrEJ8L3D-iACLcB/s1600/indias-current-population-is-12-billion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lEtDs7kCaOo/VxmWn0qv7rI/AAAAAAAAS64/JZlIM5in4P8vXDPCNEFodurrEJ8L3D-iACLcB/s640/indias-current-population-is-12-billion.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still better than a camel</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN">4)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN">Commercial flight in 3<sup>rd</sup> world country where the airplane is 60 years old and the wings nearly flap and flop all the way to the tarmac during takeoff and landing. (Looking at you, 1-2-Go in Indonesia. What, you can’t even count to 3? No wonder your planes are death-traps.)<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7Z0NSpdHFvc/VxmYgjcIEPI/AAAAAAAAS7E/n9PYUSMmrMYRXwDlcQXHPphYz24m5ZPPACLcB/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7Z0NSpdHFvc/VxmYgjcIEPI/AAAAAAAAS7E/n9PYUSMmrMYRXwDlcQXHPphYz24m5ZPPACLcB/s1600/download.jpg" /></a></div><span lang="EN"><br /></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UmF7NRgSG24/VxmYgmfiY1I/AAAAAAAAS7I/WLXmY3-XXfIPzFBg_m9Ed7hiLORLeY9QwCLcB/s1600/one_MD82_im1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UmF7NRgSG24/VxmYgmfiY1I/AAAAAAAAS7I/WLXmY3-XXfIPzFBg_m9Ed7hiLORLeY9QwCLcB/s320/one_MD82_im1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meh. Still better than murderous camel.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN">5)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN">Back of moped in Asian country where traffic signs and lights exist only for comedic purposes<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2KY7yvSWkUk/VxmZ2HjJCfI/AAAAAAAAS7Y/erdeYza7ql0FnpO_H-xdw41JpBLIReaCgCLcB/s1600/hqdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2KY7yvSWkUk/VxmZ2HjJCfI/AAAAAAAAS7Y/erdeYza7ql0FnpO_H-xdw41JpBLIReaCgCLcB/s320/hqdefault.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN">6)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN">Tuk-tuk, squeezed between highly explosive gas canisters.</span><br /><br /><span lang="EN"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-phbg5T6qm1E/VxmaJgpAAoI/AAAAAAAAS7c/xTPYTzAW4bMHtJQlXnMZpG3UBtsCI_siwCLcB/s1600/DSC03156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-phbg5T6qm1E/VxmaJgpAAoI/AAAAAAAAS7c/xTPYTzAW4bMHtJQlXnMZpG3UBtsCI_siwCLcB/s320/DSC03156.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actual picture I took riding in legendary bangkok traffic on explosives-filled Tuk-Tuk</td></tr></tbody></table><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN">7)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN">Atop a sexually aroused elephant<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bVLI4VvMH4w/VxmagmAm50I/AAAAAAAAS7k/vPc9bQIah4IzJ8kCRyEFZ5c34KXoXFl4QCLcB/s1600/CIMG0907.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="542" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bVLI4VvMH4w/VxmagmAm50I/AAAAAAAAS7k/vPc9bQIah4IzJ8kCRyEFZ5c34KXoXFl4QCLcB/s640/CIMG0907.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Northern Thailand atop the 5-legged elephant. The 5th leg was not what you really want to see in decent company</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.25in;"><span lang="EN">8) Aboard a spooked horse that is about to run off a cliff. This happened to me several times in Mongolia. But... it's still better than ...</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">9) Clinging onto a smelly murderous camel in the middle of the desert</span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rw0SjmCYScA/VxmbDn90UuI/AAAAAAAAS70/f0wvcDo4QWIhjrrWRsEzjHAkaXZo7-iRgCLcB/s1600/CIMG3437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rw0SjmCYScA/VxmbDn90UuI/AAAAAAAAS70/f0wvcDo4QWIhjrrWRsEzjHAkaXZo7-iRgCLcB/s640/CIMG3437.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Camels are just really weird. Really, really odd. Like, stranger than your weird uncle.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span>And finally, my all-time least favorite way to travel ...<br /><span style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">10) Buses: the unholy spawn of the Devil.</span><br /><span style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xj0c2JiqUAA/VxmbldzZOsI/AAAAAAAAS78/Hl0GD5kS4SsC-CCmcUaZErfIrdGkB8_BQCLcB/s1600/21.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xj0c2JiqUAA/VxmbldzZOsI/AAAAAAAAS78/Hl0GD5kS4SsC-CCmcUaZErfIrdGkB8_BQCLcB/s640/21.5.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I took this pic 20 hours into a very traumatizing bus ride in Mongolia. I still have nightmares</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN">I have gone on and on and on about the horrors of bus travel.&nbsp;</span><span style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">So it was</span><br /><span lang="EN"><span style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: -24px;">depressing to find out that the only reliable route from St Pete to Riga was via coach. But little did I know that the route was serviced but what I am pretty sure is the greatest bus line in the whole world.&nbsp;</span>The Lux Express, servicing the Baltics (Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania).<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jK6d6JR95ZA/WCE6vy_567I/AAAAAAAATpM/UMxx5BYWeBEzPd5fO9F0X7_5yuJCPs6XwCLcB/s1600/bus-lux-express-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jK6d6JR95ZA/WCE6vy_567I/AAAAAAAATpM/UMxx5BYWeBEzPd5fO9F0X7_5yuJCPs6XwCLcB/s400/bus-lux-express-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't believe it's a bus</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN">Yes, it has plush bucket seats with leg-room. Yes it has plenty of room below and above for luggage. Yes, it has an onboard toilet, that is clean. With good soft toilet paper. Clean towels. And soap. And an attendant who shines your shoes. OK, that last part isn't true.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN">But here are the kickers... every seat has a video movie gaming console! And, the grand finale: a working self-service espresso / cappuccino machine on-board!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN">It was the greatest bus experience of my life. For once, I was ensconced in luxury, drinking fresh espresso, able to lean back, watch movies, and not once worry about my bladder.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN">I will miss the Lux Express. Truly the only great bus experience I have ever had.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Elon Musk, looking at you buddy. Can you bring awesome buses to America? Please. For the love of God. Please .........</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-73986470242914832132016-04-18T22:01:00.002-07:002016-04-18T22:01:46.986-07:00Russian Ballerinas!!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JvmlHfetfOg/VkV36VzItpI/AAAAAAAAR2A/SUdsGPynb-o/s1600/02dkbt8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="356" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JvmlHfetfOg/VkV36VzItpI/AAAAAAAAR2A/SUdsGPynb-o/s640/02dkbt8.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 16px;">The massive Mariinski Theater in St Petersburg</td></tr></tbody></table>St Pete isn't just about&nbsp;<a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2015/09/the-wonderland-of-sankt-petersburg.html">glorious palaces</a>&nbsp;and&nbsp;<a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2015/10/a-sacred-space.html">mind-blowing churches</a>. It's also about glorious mind-blowing Russian ballerinas! I was guttered that I hadn't managed to make my way into the world-famous Bolshoi theater in Moscow. So it would take a bare-chested&nbsp;<a href="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/vlssIOGvJKw/maxresdefault.jpg">Putin riding a tiger</a>&nbsp;to deny me entry into the (not quite) as-famous Mariinski in St Pete. A tip to the Russian backpacking novice: these theaters are INSANELY popular with both tourists and locals alike. Russians love ballet like the French love Nutella. Which, if you don't know, is like how Americans love guns. They hug them and squeeze them and ... oh wait, where was I?<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xoWAMypIvuA/VkV54ZAyDrI/AAAAAAAAR24/grPa5dhXJHs/s1600/94a5231626176d75ec16d83b08a3ee00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xoWAMypIvuA/VkV54ZAyDrI/AAAAAAAAR24/grPa5dhXJHs/s320/94a5231626176d75ec16d83b08a3ee00.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 16px;">The "Putin riding things" meme is endless fun. And did you know Bear-Sharks are surprisingly furry?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yJUYIjXqHkk/VkV54cLX_3I/AAAAAAAAR28/yLiTl246qu0/s1600/putin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yJUYIjXqHkk/VkV54cLX_3I/AAAAAAAAR28/yLiTl246qu0/s320/putin.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 16px;">Lao Shen is the relatively unknown Vodka Dragon and actually has 7 nesting dragons inside</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZlsHiF7v9tg/VkV54R5vh7I/AAAAAAAAR20/C20i1iJAphE/s1600/Putin-riding_o_1616963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZlsHiF7v9tg/VkV54R5vh7I/AAAAAAAAR20/C20i1iJAphE/s1600/Putin-riding_o_1616963.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 16px;">It looks so cute until it pees on Ukraine</td></tr></tbody></table>Every show, afternoon and evening, for the entire week I was there was sold out. I nearly cried at the ticket office. The old babushka behind the window looked at me and asked where I was from. I told her California.<br /><br />"California! American!" (This was before Putin's recent anti-American propaganda campaign.) She tapped on her computer a bit. And then, "For You. Ticket to Swan Lake tonight. You can go?"<br /><br />"Da!!" In her outstretched hand, there it was. A golden ticket.<br /><br />Now, there are basically three classic Russian ballets to pick from.<br /><br />1) The Sleeping Beauty, composed by the rockstar himself Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky in 1890,<br />2) The Nutcracker, also by Tchaikovsky in 1892, and of course<br />3) Swan Lake, by (take a guess?) &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; ... Tchaichovsky in 1895.<br /><br />So getting a ticket to one of the Big 3 is quite nice. And unless you hate music itself, getting a chance to listen to a god like Tchaikovsky performed live is always a treat. But to hear his music in Russia?! Now that is like giving a dog a whole bag of Beggin' Strips. I couldn't wait.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KlieBdpwZtY/VkV4FnLifmI/AAAAAAAAR2I/ld5oE-s5dBY/s1600/57e2277a623ede75187a3eceb2a3ff0a_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KlieBdpwZtY/VkV4FnLifmI/AAAAAAAAR2I/ld5oE-s5dBY/s640/57e2277a623ede75187a3eceb2a3ff0a_large.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 16px;">The glorius Mariinski interior. Foto by&nbsp;<a href="http://albertknutsson.aminus3.com/image/2010-01-07.html">Albert Knutsson</a></td></tr></tbody></table>Swan Lake is classic story about how an evil dark princess/Voldemort/Vader secretly plots to take over power from the good prince/Dumbledore/Skywalker. Ha! Are you kidding no one cares about the plot. It's just a joy to watch the lithe dancers glide about the stage like actual flying swans. Fantastic. Mesmerizing. Wonderful. It is striking how wispy and thin they are, like the stalks of a dandelion. I couldn't help but think of the&nbsp;<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1997/07/16/arts/eating-disorders-haunt-ballerinas.html?pagewanted=all">price they paid to be on that stage</a>. They were&nbsp;insidiously, beautifully perfect.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gFSLVOFiLn8/VkV4b9ivWdI/AAAAAAAAR2Q/g75vhdvCsLM/s1600/SAM_0860.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gFSLVOFiLn8/VkV4b9ivWdI/AAAAAAAAR2Q/g75vhdvCsLM/s640/SAM_0860.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6bhWJxTcapM/VkV4cUX4OFI/AAAAAAAAR2U/sVBZovOtGVo/s1600/SAM_0870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6bhWJxTcapM/VkV4cUX4OFI/AAAAAAAAR2U/sVBZovOtGVo/s640/SAM_0870.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vhf8ZJLNVSA/VkV4cfrWLFI/AAAAAAAAR2Y/thOM9EMO9bw/s1600/SAM_0865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vhf8ZJLNVSA/VkV4cfrWLFI/AAAAAAAAR2Y/thOM9EMO9bw/s320/SAM_0865.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 16px;">Tchaikovsky realizing he forgot to record the new episode of "Game of Russian Thrones"</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oYK45aNGgps/VkV4de4EkBI/AAAAAAAAR2k/2jdtL9dAtV0/s1600/SAM_0874.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="324" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oYK45aNGgps/VkV4de4EkBI/AAAAAAAAR2k/2jdtL9dAtV0/s640/SAM_0874.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 16px;">Leaving the golden Mariinski after the show<br /><div><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-84841226346745235122016-04-18T21:37:00.005-07:002016-04-19T20:54:42.437-07:00Russia: Final Thoughts<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nOesXRUzxtk/VxW1KFzTYgI/AAAAAAAAS2w/7g37-YAa9mczC-VkeHC_vkAnhADT4TcxgCLcB/s1600/_81937939_putin_uniform304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nOesXRUzxtk/VxW1KFzTYgI/AAAAAAAAS2w/7g37-YAa9mczC-VkeHC_vkAnhADT4TcxgCLcB/s1600/_81937939_putin_uniform304.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Putin in his carefree Kappa Gamma Beta (KGB) days</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">Everyone hears about the politics of Russia, how it's turning back into a police-state. And perhaps for people who live there it is like that. But I have to be honest, as a tourist, I didn't feel it to be vastly different from any other place I'd visited. There were beautiful buildings and parks, lots of young friendly people, girls and guys coming up to me and buying me drinks and asking why I was here, how long I was here, ...&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN">Invariably, when I said the US, there was usually a smile and something along the lines of "Oh I love America! It seems like such a good country compared to here." It was as if they were going out of their way to break the stereotypes of the Cold War and show that those days were over. To be fair, I mostly hung out with younger Russians, and can only assume that older Russians who lived through the Cold War might feel differently.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN">Like that time<a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2014/11/moscow-by-night-part-i.html"> I almost got beaten up</a> by a steely Soviet military officer because his girl said hello to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dXvr-CouU9Y/VxW1iANGkbI/AAAAAAAAS20/P1-yYjpe3Q0mpcfcbm_InrI3no3HhwBHACLcB/s1600/desktop-hd-bald-eagle-images-for-kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dXvr-CouU9Y/VxW1iANGkbI/AAAAAAAAS20/P1-yYjpe3Q0mpcfcbm_InrI3no3HhwBHACLcB/s320/desktop-hd-bald-eagle-images-for-kids.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span lang="EN">There is definitely perhaps a bit of danger, but apparently its nothing like it was in the crazy 90's when foreigners got asked for their papers all the time. I rarely saw police and when I did they seemed bored and certainly weren't stopping people. Things have definitely changed here, there are shopping malls and bars and music.&nbsp;</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">It seems pretty open and relaxed,&nbsp;</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">at least to me as a tourist. People seemed a little cold and gruff during the day, but at night they were extremely friendly, especially when they were out drinking. Just like China in that way. After a few drinks, people coming up to me right and left and introducing themselves.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN">My lonely planet phrase-book was worth more than gold, especially the part on meeting girls which turned out to be hilarious to both local guys and girls.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OFxFPZMg2-o/VxW1uGkrCRI/AAAAAAAAS24/JulwYL8s_xE9JIRXtiTvpccp1z3YcNMNgCLcB/s1600/SAM_0117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OFxFPZMg2-o/VxW1uGkrCRI/AAAAAAAAS24/JulwYL8s_xE9JIRXtiTvpccp1z3YcNMNgCLcB/s400/SAM_0117.JPG" width="261" /></a><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></span><span lang="EN">Of course, I have to remark that as beautiful as Russia is in the summer on the surface, and as well as things are currently going, there is something strange about modern Russia. I wasn't there long enough to put my finger on it ... but how could such nice, hard-working, friendly people elect Putin, a man who yearns to take Russia back to its bellicose autocratic secret police days? Did nostalgia and longing for a failed Soviet Empire still beat so hot in Russian veins? And, why was there not a drop of graffiti anywhere near the center of Moscow? And the shut-down of all free press? It was almost Orwellian. Why did I witness a man get jumped by 3 others, kicked and beaten right to a bloody mess behind me, and no one stepped in to stop it? Was this normal? Why are there constant stories of deep corruption, of the bizarre tastes of the ultra rich oligarchs who run the country? To be fair of course, America has more than its own share of problems. But the corruption seems much deeper here, an unspoken fear of the government lies hidden just beyond my tourist eyes, and the strongman ruling over it all is slowly becoming a mythic god. A savior, who will bring Russia back to it's glorious Imperial past. Shirtless, riding a fur-covered bear-shark. Or something like that.</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">In truth, I only got a hint of that in my short month here. Instead, I will miss <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2013/11/adrift-on-rails-from-asia-to-europe.html">the pretty pastel train stations</a>, the fallen <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2014/11/moscow-part-i-red-square-delights.html">headless statues of Stalin</a>, the old crumbling gray Soviet apartments, the lonely <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2014/11/moscow-part-iii-space-shuttles.html">Russian space shuttle</a> rusting away in a children's park, the endless<a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2013/11/college-town-user-sr.html"> joyful wedding parades</a> of Russia's summer, the overflowing flowery parks, the clickety clack of days-on-end watching a continent drift by in a musty pink restaurant car, the <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2015/10/a-sacred-space.html">sparkling golden onion domes</a> of whimsical churches, the endless parade of anonymous superstar models in tight red dresses and high heels, the genuine affection for classical music, the goofy bad dancing to Abba's Dancing Queen at night, the sounds of an <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2013/06/the-sea-of-siberia.html">accordion in the Siberian countryside</a> by a fire. And <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2016/04/russian-ballerinas.html">ballerinas</a>!! Who doesn't love them?&nbsp;</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">I loved being a rock star out at night. Back home a regular Joe, in Russia a rock star. Most of all, of course, I will miss <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2015/11/fidel-castro-hot-date-and-meaning-of-it.html">the friendly people I met</a>, who were so excited to reach out from their Russian bubble and make a new friend from abroad. They are good people. Just like there are good people in every country. And they were looking to connect with an American. With me. That is what I will miss the most.</span><br /><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GZBUvv_T9bM/VxW13p-QZbI/AAAAAAAAS28/9y7poYi40-UBt_oP0IHZ0PhmA21SsQE7ACKgB/s1600/SAM_0244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GZBUvv_T9bM/VxW13p-QZbI/AAAAAAAAS28/9y7poYi40-UBt_oP0IHZ0PhmA21SsQE7ACKgB/s640/SAM_0244.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DWzgiC4TnU4/VxW8T8eR-0I/AAAAAAAAS3Q/_bbh6kI3FyIRfmpTmCXcTT8nOopFB5gpACLcB/s1600/SAM_0219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DWzgiC4TnU4/VxW8T8eR-0I/AAAAAAAAS3Q/_bbh6kI3FyIRfmpTmCXcTT8nOopFB5gpACLcB/s640/SAM_0219.JPG" width="608" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bMkhPwde2DA/VxW8ekcm32I/AAAAAAAAS3U/hOwWqMlANV4x8ZoMcXGopGLajqWUjnDdwCLcB/s1600/SAM_0349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bMkhPwde2DA/VxW8ekcm32I/AAAAAAAAS3U/hOwWqMlANV4x8ZoMcXGopGLajqWUjnDdwCLcB/s640/SAM_0349.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Wjkn7b2bAOg/VxW8izXYLmI/AAAAAAAAS3Y/MgtuOLSZTcklqFK-TznQiQMX_0NTzjlFgCLcB/s1600/SAM_0438.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="624" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Wjkn7b2bAOg/VxW8izXYLmI/AAAAAAAAS3Y/MgtuOLSZTcklqFK-TznQiQMX_0NTzjlFgCLcB/s640/SAM_0438.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0iylSfrBogc/VxW8xe5EDXI/AAAAAAAAS3c/WjWwK09I54AsLhWIAXm2cP7EQzKoznVqwCLcB/s1600/SAM_0345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="448" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0iylSfrBogc/VxW8xe5EDXI/AAAAAAAAS3c/WjWwK09I54AsLhWIAXm2cP7EQzKoznVqwCLcB/s640/SAM_0345.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p6i9RMNHhNs/VxW8_ovpFuI/AAAAAAAAS3k/840kRRs_LIgxUsQDvuAFKCq51FUFni4TACLcB/s1600/SAM_1106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p6i9RMNHhNs/VxW8_ovpFuI/AAAAAAAAS3k/840kRRs_LIgxUsQDvuAFKCq51FUFni4TACLcB/s640/SAM_1106.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-15718256314747735272015-11-12T21:16:00.004-08:002016-03-18T22:18:25.686-07:00Fidel Castro, a Hot Date, and the Meaning of it All<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8BGddNs8hVE/VuzYHYa4JAI/AAAAAAAAR6o/UUogSzPu_1s7hpvf_VYbUJseUGBymogbQ/s1600/SAM_0911.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8BGddNs8hVE/VuzYHYa4JAI/AAAAAAAAR6o/UUogSzPu_1s7hpvf_VYbUJseUGBymogbQ/s320/SAM_0911.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A night out, new friends</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;">She looked at me from across the smoky bar.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Long blonde hair. Shiny cocktail dress. Stunning face. Bright red lips.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I quickly double-checked my outfit.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Party shoes with silver disco laces: check.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Turkish sweater with overly dramatic buttons and giant flappy collar: check.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">5" long beard shampooed, conditioned, and combed: check and check.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xwh9y_50PAQ/VuzZXokK5eI/AAAAAAAAR64/T2TL60YqwkUikVGl491zS-pZF3i3XphgA/s1600/SAM_0935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xwh9y_50PAQ/VuzZXokK5eI/AAAAAAAAR64/T2TL60YqwkUikVGl491zS-pZF3i3XphgA/s320/SAM_0935.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey Russians, we call this "Yolo"ing!!</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">It was Friday night and time to parrrrrrty in St Petersburg! Earlier I'd hit the streets with a couple fun hostel-mates and we began a walk to the bar district. On the way we ran into a few Russians in a great mood, singing and swinging a bottle of something in a brown bag. I climbed up on a giant rearing horse adorning a bridge, started slapping its behind, and gave the universal sign-language for "Can you take a picture? I'm doing something really stupid!" This inspired them to take the same picture, and after about 5 minutes of me taking all 3 of them in standard "I'm-so-sexy" Russian poses, we were all best friends forever.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0q_WHgKbfWE/VuzZoIio0cI/AAAAAAAAR68/CnUeVQn2IVEdAhRFzRQoel06XoYWEnVhA/s1600/SAM_0937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0q_WHgKbfWE/VuzZoIio0cI/AAAAAAAAR68/CnUeVQn2IVEdAhRFzRQoel06XoYWEnVhA/s320/SAM_0937.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-gaming on the curb with the Cognac</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">We made it to the bar district and, instead of going in, the Russians went to the curb and joined about 50 other chain-smoking Russians also holding brown bags. I laughed and asked what kind of vodka they were drinking. My new Russian friends said, "Russians no drink wodka! This is American idea. Vee like Cognac." And indeed, the bottle in Cyrillic said&nbsp;<span style="font-size: 16px;">коньяк</span>. Russians apparently loved the sweet crap. And I couldn't blame them, after all, cheap gasoline-flavored vodka night after night probably turns your insides into fresh steamy roadkill.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I looked back at the blonde at the end of the bar. She disappeared for a moment, then emerged from the crowd and took the empty stool next to me.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I heard you talk. You are English?" she said in a strong accent.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"California."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"America?! Wow. You have wery long beard and hair. Why you here?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Well, ... it's a beautiful city." I had had more than few shots at this point. I looked at her and smiled. "With beautiful girls. Why not?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She laughed, and looked at the dance floor, complete with grinding couples dancing to American 90's pop hits. At the moment 4 non-blondes were blaring "Hey ... yea ... yea ... yea, hey ... yea ... yea ... I said hey ..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Her blue eyes looked back at me. I was a deer in the headlights. She waved her hand at the crowd and said, "Russian girls ... drink too much, smoke too much, ...... sex too much. This is problem."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was the single best line I'd ever heard, delivered from the most beautiful person I'd ever seen.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I nodded, eyes wide. She lit a cigarette and took a drag. And then motioned for the bartender. Two shots of clear liquid appeared. We tilted them back. She looked at me, waiting. The only thing clever thing I had to say was a joke about two lesbian dinosaurs. And no clue how to say it in Russian. So instead I grabbed her hand and we went to the dance floor. And I thought, well, so far she is a good Russian girl. She smoked, she drank, ... my night was looking super awesome.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Two songs later, somehow she was making out with a tall stranger and I was dancing with an empty beer bottle. Her earlier statement wasn't that prophetic after all. Damn.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BCWFM6MZRh8/VuzZ1BMG_jI/AAAAAAAAR7A/SmdKePXJh-sq2U8zsIrxwo3Ohj4XPuq2g/s1600/SAM_0938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BCWFM6MZRh8/VuzZ1BMG_jI/AAAAAAAAR7A/SmdKePXJh-sq2U8zsIrxwo3Ohj4XPuq2g/s400/SAM_0938.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L. A. It's my gang sign.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qaaTiFqxOUw/VuzZ1FUpqKI/AAAAAAAAR7I/Pk-0uDN5yr03b9WzYlLep5go4o1y4LWkg/s1600/SAM_0942.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qaaTiFqxOUw/VuzZ1FUpqKI/AAAAAAAAR7I/Pk-0uDN5yr03b9WzYlLep5go4o1y4LWkg/s400/SAM_0942.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Opposite ends of earth. Brothers from birth.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GExCHS45_ko/VuzZ1MBIjhI/AAAAAAAAR7E/Xa9EM4ntZCYgVZCSfpw99gx45GG8P7Q0Q/s1600/SAM_0945.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GExCHS45_ko/VuzZ1MBIjhI/AAAAAAAAR7E/Xa9EM4ntZCYgVZCSfpw99gx45GG8P7Q0Q/s400/SAM_0945.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The one and only time where being labeled an American was fantastic.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">But the night was not a loss. On the floor was a cute girl with curls dancing and giggling like it was her last night on earth. I said "Privyet," and she said "you're the Ameerrrrrrican! Hahahahahaha!! I heard you talking earlier." Her English was perfect.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At the end of the night, she told me she was a tour guide and to come visit her at Pushkin, a wonder of Russia. Pushkin had not been in my plans, but yeah. It was now.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The next day, head pounding, I popped out of a subway station in the middle of a generic looking suburb. I looked around for the girl from last night. And looked. And realized this was ridiculous. How would she find me in a crowded street? What the hell was I doing here?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Hello Nemo!" came a voice behind me. I turned and found a girl. Her hair was straighter, and instead of a tight dress she wore jeans and a colorful top. But that bubbly smile was her.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We spent the day in beautiful Pushkin, which contains an enormous imperial park that is now open to the public. There are pretty lakes and tree-flanked canals and candy-colored bridges, beautiful fountains and artists painting landscapes and musicians, and in the center of it all: the jewel of Catherine Palace. It bears a striking resemblance to its famous twin, the Winter palace in downtown St Petersburg. Probably because they were both designed by the over-the-top pimp-master Rastrelli. If you wanna pimp yer palace, have an Italian build it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sH1Fo0BYnT0/Vuzac8ZKcMI/AAAAAAAAR7g/wlTciVBWOZ8PIw5tKN0Oxdm3y4HqRKGTQ/s1600/SAM_0968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="324" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sH1Fo0BYnT0/Vuzac8ZKcMI/AAAAAAAAR7g/wlTciVBWOZ8PIw5tKN0Oxdm3y4HqRKGTQ/s640/SAM_0968.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Candy-cane bridges</td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-szUwKpDE0_8/VuzacyKOlpI/AAAAAAAAR7Y/DV35p0w7IGsY10hlCEmAbXRW_JuSSInEg/s1600/SAM_0976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="354" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-szUwKpDE0_8/VuzacyKOlpI/AAAAAAAAR7Y/DV35p0w7IGsY10hlCEmAbXRW_JuSSInEg/s640/SAM_0976.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The decadent Catherine Palace in Pushkin</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xVDfVXBjHB8/VuzadlRUVdI/AAAAAAAAR7k/ea0rqAEoQFQ-jU2BlEhileBLNR5nIq28g/s1600/SAM_0981.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xVDfVXBjHB8/VuzadlRUVdI/AAAAAAAAR7k/ea0rqAEoQFQ-jU2BlEhileBLNR5nIq28g/s640/SAM_0981.JPG" width="640" /></a></div></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ua6STntb_PI/Vuzadm-tRqI/AAAAAAAAR7s/KnPCw_9scGYGV09cpCejnIIpgRh9TzHOQ/s1600/SAM_0982.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ua6STntb_PI/Vuzadm-tRqI/AAAAAAAAR7s/KnPCw_9scGYGV09cpCejnIIpgRh9TzHOQ/s640/SAM_0982.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4G2lzWz3Epk/VuzaeTO6RnI/AAAAAAAAR7w/T1vv-OLnpwIU5C-7BQG70vbLZIs_D7ltw/s1600/SAM_1000.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="392" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4G2lzWz3Epk/VuzaeTO6RnI/AAAAAAAAR7w/T1vv-OLnpwIU5C-7BQG70vbLZIs_D7ltw/s640/SAM_1000.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bIC6O2Q9Qyw/Vuzae7Nux0I/AAAAAAAAR78/gDEty5oIvx0hI3_ZtZ2HkBnaaICg0TGBQ/s1600/SAM_1015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bIC6O2Q9Qyw/Vuzae7Nux0I/AAAAAAAAR78/gDEty5oIvx0hI3_ZtZ2HkBnaaICg0TGBQ/s320/SAM_1015.JPG" width="240" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">In the evening we ended up at a lake called the Admiralty, fronted by old trees and pretty sculptures. It had been a beautiful day with a beautiful person.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I wanted to see her again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We stayed in touch for a bit, and I almost convinced her to come visit me in Egypt on the Red Sea. A few months later I checked her Facebook status and saw she was married.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Married? So quick! And it was not the first girl I'd met in Russia who ended up married not long after I'd met them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I did a search online, and apparently the average age of first marriage for a woman in Russia is 24.9 years old. In the US it is 27. Norway, by comparison, was 31.4. The mid-20's are prime years, important years for partying, for travel, for building a career, for going on adventures. Did the women in Russia want to get married young? Or was it cultural pressure?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Another mystery of the Great Red Bear.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I couldn't help but feel a little strange over it all. Traveling by oneself is rarely lonely. It is shockingly easy to meet friendly people when you are solo overseas. But there are also too many times when you meet someone special, then move on and never see them again. It happens again, and again, and again.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And that is when the strange language and exotic buildings and incredible sights simply make you feel far from home. What good it is all if no one else sees it? Who else can ever possibly know what I felt, especially in those moments of wonder?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At such times I wonder why I am traveling. What am I trying to find? Myself? Or someone special ... to share these achingly beautiful moments?</div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 1; word-spacing: 0px;"></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-23945030887463391712015-10-05T20:45:00.000-07:002015-10-05T21:00:01.154-07:00A Sacred Space<div style="text-align: left;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PILyU_wFkxo/VhNCXK0XLEI/AAAAAAAARz0/Fq2A4erCk4c/s1600/SAM_1085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PILyU_wFkxo/VhNCXK0XLEI/AAAAAAAARz0/Fq2A4erCk4c/s400/SAM_1085.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most gruesome-named, best church ever.</td></tr></tbody></table>There are certain things that elevate travel beyond the ordinary. Make it magic.<br /><br />A <a href="https://zebstar.wordpress.com/2007/01/25/tama-gringo/">sunset on an exotic beach</a>.<br /><br />Having <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2011/06/chinese-bar-night.html">random drinks with random friends</a> that speak in random accents.<br /><br /><a href="https://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/09/10/day-5-mweke-hut-10200-ft/">Summiting a mountain at sunrise</a>, surrounded by glaciers.<br /><br />But perhaps above all of these are the times I find myself in a place of sacredness.<br /><br />I am not religious. In fact, I would say I am closer to an atheist than a believer of ... anything in particular. But I am also a human being. And I cannot help but catch my breath a little and feel goosebumps on my spine when I encounter such places. Where there is stillness. Reflection. A chance to quiet the mind and breathe ...<br /><br />It could be a gothic candle-filled church in Prague. Or a <a href="http://www.onedumbtravelbum.com/2011/04/living-art.html">peaceful shinto waterfall</a> in Japan. Or an <a href="https://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/05/28/java-lava/">ancient cosmic Buddhist temple</a> in the jungle. Or a light-filled, airy mosque.<br /><br />Today, in St Petersburg, I found such place. A place of light and swirling colors and whimsy, a place that made me look up in surprised joy.<br /><br />This was the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. One cannot help but compare it to the equally gorgeous St Basil's Cathedral in Moscow's Red Square, after which it was intentionally modeled. They both are topped with those swirling rainbow onion domes that make me hungry for candy for some reason. But even though it was built much more recently, the St Pete version wins hands down.<br /><br />Whereas the inside of St Basil's is an underwhelming series of small cramped chapels with fading paint, the Church of the Savior is brimming floor-to-ceiling with rich mosaics and paintings, gold leaf trim, and a spectacular blue star-filled ceiling. The gorgeous details draw your eye around the room. Shafts of light stream in from the stain-glassed windows, the kind of stunning light that might shine through a gap in dark clouds.<br /><br />It is perfect.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Hvm1-OnEzNU/VhNCSsj6FBI/AAAAAAAARyk/RxHm93KZHco/s1600/SAM_1048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Hvm1-OnEzNU/VhNCSsj6FBI/AAAAAAAARyk/RxHm93KZHco/s640/SAM_1048.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skittles, right? Right?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1MSH4Xx05ng/VhNCSbb6BDI/AAAAAAAARys/EwzflJu5AoY/s1600/SAM_1058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1MSH4Xx05ng/VhNCSbb6BDI/AAAAAAAARys/EwzflJu5AoY/s640/SAM_1058.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simply incredible.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aIdZ4c2GjCU/VhNCT8sHRLI/AAAAAAAARy8/jP1Tirhg7wE/s1600/SAM_1060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aIdZ4c2GjCU/VhNCT8sHRLI/AAAAAAAARy8/jP1Tirhg7wE/s640/SAM_1060.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The light, the colors, ... a special place.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l8jhvCxPQfg/VhNCUVtr5aI/AAAAAAAARzA/wtAGEA4nSfc/s1600/SAM_1061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l8jhvCxPQfg/VhNCUVtr5aI/AAAAAAAARzA/wtAGEA4nSfc/s640/SAM_1061.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cz1iPddVP7U/VhNCVtSsA5I/AAAAAAAARzU/FWCRZdysyWc/s1600/SAM_1069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cz1iPddVP7U/VhNCVtSsA5I/AAAAAAAARzU/FWCRZdysyWc/s640/SAM_1069.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gVop1HnjxCo/VhNCVy4nFfI/AAAAAAAARzY/7d1-lLY6sjg/s1600/SAM_1078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gVop1HnjxCo/VhNCVy4nFfI/AAAAAAAARzY/7d1-lLY6sjg/s640/SAM_1078.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UwYDk7N1pbg/VhNCV7KiSmI/AAAAAAAARzc/7rOhfC-72x4/s1600/SAM_1080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UwYDk7N1pbg/VhNCV7KiSmI/AAAAAAAARzc/7rOhfC-72x4/s640/SAM_1080.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-26861268924649543412015-09-30T23:08:00.004-07:002015-10-01T00:12:17.097-07:00The Wonderland of Sankt Petersburg<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LXWDImWF0fo/Vgy_HQ0JC5I/AAAAAAAARuQ/dHQ6JBenH5g/s1600/SAM_0683.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="408" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LXWDImWF0fo/Vgy_HQ0JC5I/AAAAAAAARuQ/dHQ6JBenH5g/s640/SAM_0683.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Night Train</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN">The rails had taken me from Tibet to Beijing to Ulaanbaatar to Moscow, a journey of nearly 6000 miles.&nbsp;</span>I had loved every minute of it. But the ride on the iron horse was now nearly over. After this last trip, I would be at the end of the tracks.</div></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1BfGdl3bmjs/Vgy_iUBvt-I/AAAAAAAARuY/ZJ2RB1uheRY/s1600/SAM_0695.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1BfGdl3bmjs/Vgy_iUBvt-I/AAAAAAAARuY/ZJ2RB1uheRY/s320/SAM_0695.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Russian train stewardess</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">I sat in the Moscow train station, around 11pm at night, waiting with the crowd for the overnight train to arrive. There were sleepy-eyed men like myself, wearing their Adidas jumpsuits over wife-beater T's. Yet, there were also well-dressed men in suits with perfectly made-up wives in tight dresses and heels. All this, for an overnight train.</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">This was Russia: a mix of the old and new. We Westerners used to dress up when we traveled, didn't we? It was nice to see in a nostalgic way. I examined the holes in my sleeveless shirt, and stroked my unshaven beard. Yep. I was not among the well-dressed.</span><br /><br />I clambered aboard and found my 1st class sleeper. Only 2 bunks in the entire compartment and a private bathroom! Toilet paper! Fresh soaps! Blankets without any strange smells!! Wowwwww. Yes, I may be a hobo. But even hobos enjoy Luxury.<br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">And so, snuggled in my bunk, I drifted off to th</span>at comforting deep white noise that can only be found on a train. Pamela Anderson appeared, but not the young version. It was old, weird, Pamela Anderson from her roast on Comedy Central. Her plastic boobs were askew like drunken eyeballs, and her face make-up began to melt. Layer, after layer, after layer ... and then....<br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">The train lurched, waking me. We were there. What did the Pamela Anderson nightmare mean? I jostled in with the pack and fell outside,&nbsp;</span>squinting in the early morning sun.<br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">I had stumbled into a Wonderland.</span></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k41evO363qE/Vgy-UHldWeI/AAAAAAAARuE/HrLaUWmtMpA/s1600/SAM_1106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k41evO363qE/Vgy-UHldWeI/AAAAAAAARuE/HrLaUWmtMpA/s640/SAM_1106.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The glorious cathedral Nikolo- something something</td></tr></tbody></table>There is one city on Earth where it's very clear a woman was in charge. Bright pink and powder blue buildings line the broad avenues. Lush gardens brimming with roses spill over rivers and sprout from parks. In the center of it all is the teal-green mothership: the ridiculously extravagant winter palace, where every room explodes with the bright colors of a child's crayon set. Yet nothing tops the singular Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. (Gruesome name, mind-blowing church.) By far the most spectacular place of worship I have ever seen, anywhere in the world.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aNDe2gfsofw/VgzATkzJrlI/AAAAAAAARuo/JzU3dpgFsV0/s1600/SAM_0705.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aNDe2gfsofw/VgzATkzJrlI/AAAAAAAARuo/JzU3dpgFsV0/s400/SAM_0705.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St Pete: Pretty in Pink</td></tr></tbody></table>Welcome to beautiful Sankt Petersburg, founded by Peter the Great, but pimped out by Catherine the ... also ... Great. This quite amazing Tsaritsa reigned during Russia's golden age, when the Empire sprawled over 1/6 of the Earth's land mass.<br /><br />It is not just the gorgeous Italian Baroque and Rococo palaces and Renaissance churches that make St Petersburg feel so candy-sweet. Its also all the wonderful little details. The pretty canals, the endless bridges capped with golden statues of lions and horses, the parks bursting with flowers and fountains, the hidden little fairies along the river. Clean broad boulevards flanked by beautiful art deco buildings, all leading to a ridiculous over-the-top palace that rivals the Emerald City of Oz.<br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">In the late summer of August, the temperature is perfect. Of course, locals are quick to point out that it can drop to -40 deg C in the winter. I tried to imagine my face frozen and everything covered in snow, sipping a brown-bagged bottle of vodka to stay warm. Then I realized I was sweating in the summer heat. And needed a beer to cool off.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">It was a Summer Saturday in a major city in Russia. Which meant that streams of wedding parties were parading around the city, piling up for photos at every major site. In other words, every time I hit a Lonely Planet highlight and whipped out my camera, I had 15 beautiful Russian bridesmaids in the background. It made for really really tough sledding, but someone's got to do it.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iSTbt1KJ7mQ/VgzBbFbJ9FI/AAAAAAAARvc/Son021A-hlI/s1600/SAM_0817.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iSTbt1KJ7mQ/VgzBbFbJ9FI/AAAAAAAARvc/Son021A-hlI/s640/SAM_0817.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A very shiny Russian groom</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MHGLYogxn_4/VgzBbdwlRbI/AAAAAAAARu4/lHLyEuchX_c/s1600/SAM_0821.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="352" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MHGLYogxn_4/VgzBbdwlRbI/AAAAAAAARu4/lHLyEuchX_c/s640/SAM_0821.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How did Charlie Brown get invited to a Russian wedding?</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4XHX_vjft1o/VgzBcj6MiLI/AAAAAAAARvI/UVtmBmcZoJs/s1600/SAM_0833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="408" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4XHX_vjft1o/VgzBcj6MiLI/AAAAAAAARvI/UVtmBmcZoJs/s640/SAM_0833.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Its not a real Russian city without a girl in animal print and red heels checking out her selfies</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uP7KMsQOjhA/VgzBcUzpTPI/AAAAAAAARu8/WmKZn4HjwOM/s1600/SAM_0849.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="396" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uP7KMsQOjhA/VgzBcUzpTPI/AAAAAAAARu8/WmKZn4HjwOM/s640/SAM_0849.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's absolutely not a real Russian city without "sexy pose" in Adidas sneakers on a giant gold griffin</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B8TRK73UTjY/VgzBdZH0_OI/AAAAAAAARvE/59EF36lH6SE/s1600/SAM_0876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B8TRK73UTjY/VgzBdZH0_OI/AAAAAAAARvE/59EF36lH6SE/s640/SAM_0876.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The subways were built below the swampland that existed before the city. Waaaaay below.</td></tr></tbody></table>You can sense the ginormous Winter Palace before you even get to it. All roads in the city tend to take you there, as it sits in a the middle of a giant wheel. You enter the main sprawling plaza, fountains spouting, and then ... there it is. All 1/4 mile of it. Teal-green, white trim, anointed with hundreds of copper Greek-god styled statues, it is Rastrelli's masterpiece.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jVtMwiZbkK4/VgzE1vOjdSI/AAAAAAAARvw/NYSxaVYwjOk/s1600/SAM_0713.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="350" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jVtMwiZbkK4/VgzE1vOjdSI/AAAAAAAARvw/NYSxaVYwjOk/s640/SAM_0713.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It goes on and on and on and on and</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">The inside is silly. The comparison with the Forbidden City in Beijing, say, could not be more stark. The Forbidden City is imposing, majestic, and ... empty. Gutted. Which to me at least, made it series of sad buildings where it takes a bit of imagination to see its former glory. The Winter Palace is completely Stuffed with Awesome. The interior is decked out in such dazzling colors that you walk from room to room with a&nbsp;</span>quiet sense of awe and a stupid slack-jawed smile.<br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Gold room, red room, throne rooms, malachite room, endless priceless paintings and sculptures, fresco rooms, peacock clock, Egyptian treasures (you can't be an empire in Europe without going to Egypt and plundering a few giant half-naked pharaohs and at least one obelisk.) The palace has a total of 1500 rooms. My sweet cabana house I live in now has 6 rooms and it's almost too much. What the hell do you do with the other 1494 rooms? Oh yeah .... you fill them with the endless treasure of the Russian empire.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cK94ZaalLiQ/VgzG8ZPwKnI/AAAAAAAARwA/_4X665CuN9M/s1600/SAM_0730.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cK94ZaalLiQ/VgzG8ZPwKnI/AAAAAAAARwA/_4X665CuN9M/s640/SAM_0730.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grand staircase near the entrance sets the tone. A tone of "holy crap this place is mental"</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BilnrjQect4/VgzG8ZG0nZI/AAAAAAAARwE/Vshx2nNZBJo/s1600/SAM_0743.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BilnrjQect4/VgzG8ZG0nZI/AAAAAAAARwE/Vshx2nNZBJo/s640/SAM_0743.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AWESOME malachite room. Ensconced in green stone and gold leaf. My personal favorite.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4xZs73cNx_4/VgzG8ccWF8I/AAAAAAAARv8/nm2LZ_JNWZ0/s1600/SAM_0747.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4xZs73cNx_4/VgzG8ccWF8I/AAAAAAAARv8/nm2LZ_JNWZ0/s640/SAM_0747.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Malachite room intricate gold-leafed ceiling</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DQbVT-z1FMc/VgzG9l7hEvI/AAAAAAAARwU/3F74h3tnzQ8/s1600/SAM_0750.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DQbVT-z1FMc/VgzG9l7hEvI/AAAAAAAARwU/3F74h3tnzQ8/s640/SAM_0750.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Boudoir. This is nothing compared to my boudoir. (Can someone tell me what a boudoir is?)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XNwuwxIRT1k/VgzPPbGHKeI/AAAAAAAARxs/wwHpW6rcJL0/s1600/SAM_0755.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XNwuwxIRT1k/VgzPPbGHKeI/AAAAAAAARxs/wwHpW6rcJL0/s640/SAM_0755.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gold Room. Very disappointed. Not filled with gold coins that I could swim in like Scrooge McDuck.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W-jqcaEV9dY/VgzG93AvRsI/AAAAAAAARwc/GWiWlbeSs44/s1600/SAM_0763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W-jqcaEV9dY/VgzG93AvRsI/AAAAAAAARwc/GWiWlbeSs44/s640/SAM_0763.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Blue Room</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B8S6He9WbBw/VgzG_EySVMI/AAAAAAAARws/dQDWQ9jo81E/s1600/SAM_0769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B8S6He9WbBw/VgzG_EySVMI/AAAAAAAARws/dQDWQ9jo81E/s640/SAM_0769.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Armorial Hall. The gold and windows and light... perfect. I lingered here for a long time.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zcYFyZXKEGs/VgzG_SCJaLI/AAAAAAAARww/2R2Vu_0cyHU/s1600/SAM_0770.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zcYFyZXKEGs/VgzG_SCJaLI/AAAAAAAARww/2R2Vu_0cyHU/s640/SAM_0770.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wanted to sit in it soooo bad... you have no idea. And then command my forces to invade Germany.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3FN6RWkBSY/VgzG_pdtbgI/AAAAAAAARw0/pfxB9lbvEvw/s1600/SAM_0776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3FN6RWkBSY/VgzG_pdtbgI/AAAAAAAARw0/pfxB9lbvEvw/s640/SAM_0776.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a floor mosaic in the Hermitage, the living suites next to the palace. They are seriously pimped</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L7ZzRtI7ens/VgzHAIUhRnI/AAAAAAAARxA/TLbkfwuJQPs/s1600/SAM_0789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L7ZzRtI7ens/VgzHAIUhRnI/AAAAAAAARxA/TLbkfwuJQPs/s640/SAM_0789.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Military Gallery. Painted in place. Some poor schmuck painted at the top of a ladder for weeks.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-loMJ_t23hYk/VgzHAg9O4XI/AAAAAAAARxI/3m2zXGA_JEg/s1600/SAM_0791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-loMJ_t23hYk/VgzHAg9O4XI/AAAAAAAARxI/3m2zXGA_JEg/s640/SAM_0791.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "12-column room" was impressive. It actually has 24 columns. Russians are humble people.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8FYHck6Z-Zw/VgzHA_OPMzI/AAAAAAAARxQ/E-busmb7NoM/s1600/SAM_0798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8FYHck6Z-Zw/VgzHA_OPMzI/AAAAAAAARxQ/E-busmb7NoM/s640/SAM_0798.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Really enjoyed these early 19th century paintings of Joan of Arc by German painter Stilke</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hp9RyDi3D3o/VgzHBcwkRWI/AAAAAAAARxY/0aO5QTZv9ms/s1600/SAM_0800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hp9RyDi3D3o/VgzHBcwkRWI/AAAAAAAARxY/0aO5QTZv9ms/s640/SAM_0800.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joan at the moment of truth (1843, Stilke)</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">There is much much more to&nbsp;</span>Санкт-Петербу́рг&nbsp;(Sankt Petersburg), such as the comically deep subways (they had to be lower than the surrounding swamp), the gorgeous Mariinsky Theater, the gritty fun nightlife, and on it goes, so stay tuned my wanderlusting friends ...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-81951811733213825662015-02-05T19:04:00.004-08:002015-02-05T19:31:44.025-08:00"I was born in a small town..." in Russia.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x0CY5OfinKg/VNQtVrSPfBI/AAAAAAAARQY/UEiEEtg0i70/s1600/SAM_0519.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x0CY5OfinKg/VNQtVrSPfBI/AAAAAAAARQY/UEiEEtg0i70/s1600/SAM_0519.JPG" height="410" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful Suzdal</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">“I wish I could show you the little village where I was born. It's so lovely there...I used to think it too small to spend a life in, but now I'm not so sure.”&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">―&nbsp;</span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/90102.Mary_Kelly" style="background-color: white; color: #666600; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;">Mary Kelly</a><br /><br />I was in Suzdal, Russia, a famously cute town filled to the rim with country churches and wide open farms. Golden sparkly domes topped the cozy little church next to me, plunked down next to a lazy river. Grass reeds lined the banks, waving in the breeze. I stood looking over the rail of a crumbly arched stone bridge, the exact kind that would someone would paint into such a scene. And, in fact, at the top of a nearby hill, an old man sat hunched with an easel and paints staring intently in my general direction. I was literally inside of a painting.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XVAEih1GJAQ/VNQtV2NI9ZI/AAAAAAAARQk/Mr0dRYMnMJE/s1600/SAM_0503.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XVAEih1GJAQ/VNQtV2NI9ZI/AAAAAAAARQk/Mr0dRYMnMJE/s1600/SAM_0503.JPG" height="418" width="640" /></a></div><br />I pondered the flowing water beneath, lost in thought. Zoned out. Or in, perhaps. A strange duck looked up at me. Maybe it wanted to ask a question.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />In the distance a little fairy town of wooden cottages and windmills and craft shops invited day-trippers from Moscow. But there weren't any takers on this sunny warm Tuesday afternoon. I had the tourist village all to myself. In fact, it seemed I had the entire town to myself.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />That insanely irresistible smell of baking bread wafted out of a shop, mixed with fresh coffee. Next door, a little stain-glassed cave/chapel sold home-brewed mead. It was stunning inside, tinted reddish-purple-orange from the reflections of bright candles on glass. The honey-infused Apple-based mead was sweet, strong, and, well ... meady. If you haven't had mead before it's hard to describe. It is possibly the only alcohol in the world where the hangover starts before the buzz, but you don't really care because it tastes so damn sweet and awesome. I managed to get a headache that was somehow pleasantly tipsy, then stumbled out back into the warm afternoon sun.<br /><br />And I thought, "I could live here." Like Mary Kelly, I came from a small town that, as a teenager, felt like a desert. Not a prison, really, I knew I could escape. But it just didn't have anything for me. California pulled me away as sure and strong as a Japanese toilet bidet. (Trust me, <b><u><a href="http://www.tofugu.com/2013/07/22/why-japanese-toilets-are-failing-in-america/">Japanese bidets are strong enough to sand-blast paint</a></u></b>. Don't put your moo-goo there unless you enjoy pain.)<br /><br />Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, the City!!!<br /><br />The City is bright, full of energy, filled with possibility!<br /><br />But now, amongst the questioning ducks and pleasant 1-man-band accordion player and pretty country churches and wooden windmills and honeyed mead, or maybe because of the honeyed mead, I found myself 2nd-guessing that idea.<br /><br />Perhaps it was time to head back to the country. Buy a little house, put down roots in a small town full of familiar faces where everyone knows my name. (Mostly because I'm named after a freaking Disney fish.) The air smelled of grass and bread and coffee and horses and freshy-ness. I inhaled deep.<br /><br />The duck quacked, and I swear it nodded its head at me. Maybe it knew it's question had been answered. Or maybe it had gas. Either way, we were both now supremely content.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GctdxV4g4S0/VNQtXbGBT6I/AAAAAAAARQo/ozA7DO-_CR0/s1600/SAM_0524.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GctdxV4g4S0/VNQtXbGBT6I/AAAAAAAARQo/ozA7DO-_CR0/s1600/SAM_0524.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When offered a very large tasting platter of mead, just say "Da."</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2kWJ3j8_glo/VNQtaqdSlNI/AAAAAAAARRQ/Z8Tu5KBrXaQ/s1600/SAM_0551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2kWJ3j8_glo/VNQtaqdSlNI/AAAAAAAARRQ/Z8Tu5KBrXaQ/s1600/SAM_0551.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0VGBT9bIGtQ/VNQtYBf9t6I/AAAAAAAARQw/qIbZIQQMLqw/s1600/SAM_0539.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0VGBT9bIGtQ/VNQtYBf9t6I/AAAAAAAARQw/qIbZIQQMLqw/s1600/SAM_0539.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SJ-rkVlYaxk/VNQtZOqA8wI/AAAAAAAARQ8/h1mcZh1UQlA/s1600/SAM_0559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SJ-rkVlYaxk/VNQtZOqA8wI/AAAAAAAARQ8/h1mcZh1UQlA/s1600/SAM_0559.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vMXL3LIZ09U/VNQtagjLhzI/AAAAAAAARRc/RYdcvIZlOkA/s1600/SAM_0647.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vMXL3LIZ09U/VNQtagjLhzI/AAAAAAAARRc/RYdcvIZlOkA/s1600/SAM_0647.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gone fishin'</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2kJMpb8bro0/VNQtcVCkXXI/AAAAAAAARRk/T32hMdl7pD8/s1600/SAM_0654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2kJMpb8bro0/VNQtcVCkXXI/AAAAAAAARRk/T32hMdl7pD8/s1600/SAM_0654.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An invitation</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LIYfqt1eg8Y/VNQtc_2L0sI/AAAAAAAARRg/3KX1xOxP-zY/s1600/SAM_0659.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LIYfqt1eg8Y/VNQtc_2L0sI/AAAAAAAARRg/3KX1xOxP-zY/s1600/SAM_0659.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fields of gold</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-40364148519904820782014-11-22T22:00:00.003-08:002014-11-22T22:30:47.385-08:00Moscow: An aimless, magical stroll<div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BRFyk1A2AW8/VHFyvgQTbnI/AAAAAAAARE8/E3HFCkb2XG4/s1600/SAM_0158.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BRFyk1A2AW8/VHFyvgQTbnI/AAAAAAAARE8/E3HFCkb2XG4/s1600/SAM_0158.JPG" height="370" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Four Seasons Fountain, symbolized by four horses, just outside Red Square</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">It was a glorious sunny day, a few white fluffy clouds ambling aimlessly amongst the blue. They and I were apparently of the same mind. And so I began my walk.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I had <u><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2014/11/moscow-part-ii-kremlin-candy.html">seen the sights</a></u>, <u><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2014/11/moscow-part-i-red-square-delights.html">made peace accords with Lenin and Stalin</a></u>, rubbed toppled stone Communist heads for good luck, touched a<u> <a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2014/11/moscow-part-iii-space-shuttles.html">rusting Soviet space shuttle</a></u>, <a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2014/11/moscow-by-night-part-ii-pacha.html">partied my funky chicken off </a>with lingerie-clad stewardesses, and even<u><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2014/11/moscow-by-night-part-i.html"> gotten into a scrap</a></u> with one General Orlov. It had been a quite a week in Moscow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">But my favorite moment was yet to come. One of the greatest pleasures afforded a long-term backpacker is the luxury, and oh what a luxury it is, to have a foreign city beckoning with absolutely no goals or plan in mind. <u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Theroux">Paul Theroux</a></u> would wax eloquently about this singular emotion in his many books.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">"</span><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/p/paultherou133865.html?src=t_travel" style="color: black; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 20px; line-height: 26px; text-decoration: none;" title="view quote">Tourists don't know where they've been, travelers don't know where they're going.</a></div><div class="bq-aut" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; margin-top: 6px;"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/p/paul_theroux.html" style="color: #0000aa; text-decoration: none;" title="view author">Paul Theroux</a></div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">My friends, this is a thrill like no other, the ultimate in travel. A lightness in your step, a smile upon your face, an anticipation that no matter what comes it will be something... weird and new and wonderful. You walk and say "Oooo, does that nice little cafe have a woman playing a cello? Hmm. I have nothing better to do, so I think I will plunk my ass down there and get an espresso and listen. Why the hell not!" This idea of "Porque No?" &nbsp;/ "Pochemu Nyet?" (Russian)? "Porquis Pas?"&nbsp;(French) comes up again and again in every country around the world. You see it in graffiti, in a shrug before heading out for the night, in a bar when a round of shots appear; it is a secret handshake amongst the free spirits of the world. Life is short, every day is a precious gift. Why not indeed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">And so with Porque No? resting comfortably on my brain, I began to walk. My first stop was the world famous Bolshoi Theater, the heart and soul of ballet in all the world. Simply put, it is legend. None other than Tchaichovksy's Swan Lake premiered here in 1877. It houses by far the largest ballet company in the world with over 200 dancers. And the interior was said to be fabulous, almost palatial. I was determined to catch a Swan Lake, or Nutcracker, or at least a Sleeping Beauty at the Bolshoi. But, the backpacker curse struck yet again. It was sold out for the entire time I was in town.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uhpKRxMdmE8/VHFx1mKy3nI/AAAAAAAARE0/f5gBBSNvE0U/s1600/SAM_0101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uhpKRxMdmE8/VHFx1mKy3nI/AAAAAAAARE0/f5gBBSNvE0U/s1600/SAM_0101.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The world-famous Bolshoi Theater</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">The backpacker curse is this: you travel for such a long time that you are freed from the constraints of a schedule. It is a very liberating feeling that is hard to even describe to those who have not experienced it. It allows you to reach a new state of mindfulness, of connection, of bliss: the elusive Traveler's Zen. But the curse is that this very lack of planning which gives you such freedom can backfire. The big attractions may be sold out or closed on the day you arrive, as had happened with all my beloved <u><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2014/11/moscow-part-i-red-square-delights.html">pickled Communist leaders.</a></u> &lt;sob!&gt;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then again, it is a small price to pay, really. After all, there was a sister theater to the Bolshoi in St Petersburg called the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mariinsky_Theatre">Mariinsky</a>, which is arguably even more famous. I vowed that I would not miss this final chance for pretty ballerinas dancing in tigh-- er... culture.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So instead I headed north to do a walking tour of the city per Lonely Planet. I wandered through nice cafes, bars, little cute churches, flower-filled parks, fountains, museums, and the occasional pair of high-heeled girls in tight dresses taking pictures of themselves in front of &lt;insert landmark&gt;. Then my phone beeped. (A veteran backpacking move is to purchase a very cheap phone, and then a new sim card in each major country you visit. It's a fantastically cheap way to stay in touch with new friends.) I picked up and found it was a one of the few girls I'd met at Pacha who wasn't completely freaked out by my <a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2014/11/moscow-by-night-part-ii-pacha.html">attempt at a bare-ass break-dancing worm routine,</a>&nbsp;And best of all, she spoke very good English.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2cyIOz5qoRo/VHFy-9AMq9I/AAAAAAAARFE/Y29zIjZu5Tg/s1600/SAM_0121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2cyIOz5qoRo/VHFy-9AMq9I/AAAAAAAARFE/Y29zIjZu5Tg/s1600/SAM_0121.JPG" height="365" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Random acts of awesome in the streets of Moscow</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">She suggested we meet at a cute little cafe for dinner called Margarita. I walked in, we hugged and sat in a corner, ordering a tasty pizza and some yummy French wine. And just then, a string quartet began playing in the corner. I had low expectations, after all we were in a glorified coffee shop and they were probably street buskers by day. Instead, what I can only describe as golden drops of light and sound wafted through the air. These young music students were incredibly, delightfully, astoundingly good. After just a few phrases my hair stood up on my neck. Emotion poured out of the quartet, classical music, then pop arranged for strings, then Tchaikovsky, then swelling Vivaldi. I sat mesmerized.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This was just a just a little coffee shop with some pastry snacks and wine. A tiny mom and pop. And yet here we were getting a concert that I would have paid an easy $100 ticket back in the US: pure skill, pure magic and romance, pure serendipity, just for the two of us. A moment I would never forget. Once again, I had reached Traveler's Zen.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/B1JTIKM_7AI" width="480"></iframe> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Can you imagine a classical string quartet in the subway in the Bronx? Me either</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-21568622995170712014-11-20T23:27:00.003-08:002014-11-21T00:00:17.955-08:00Moscow by Night Part II: Pacha!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AmTC0xzm1Ac/VG7iH2ztE-I/AAAAAAAARA4/Qs9kAm1X9eY/s1600/Moscow-Nightlife-101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AmTC0xzm1Ac/VG7iH2ztE-I/AAAAAAAARA4/Qs9kAm1X9eY/s1600/Moscow-Nightlife-101.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Russia with Club</td></tr></tbody></table>The sulky beautiful woman with black hair, tiny ripped leather skirt, fishnets and knee-high boots tapped her clipboard, looking me up and down. I was wearing a fresh button-down shirt and new black shoes I had purchased for just this occasion. I had even combed my beard. She squinted at it, with a look that said perhaps it was giving her gastric distress.<br /><br />"Where you from?'<br /><br />"Um, I live in Los Angeles, you know near Hollywood."<br /><br />Her face suddenly lit up. "Hollywood? Wow I vant go. I vant to be famous movie star... people say I beautiful..." Her eyes became dreamy. Then she hardened again and looked at my friend. He had no new button-down shirt or shoes. In fact, he looked like a typical frumpy backpacker, fresh out of the hammock. Ruh roh.<br /><br />"He's with me?" I offered weakly.<br /><br />&nbsp;A pause. The long line of beautiful people behind us shuffled and frowned. Then, "OK, Mr Hollywood, you go. Enjoy. Pacha is very best, you will see."<br /><br />Two very large black men in black suits appeared out of nowhere and escorted us to the front door, where we were given the chance to buy entrance tickets for 900 rubles. Each. At the time that amounted to about $30 (the ruble has recently tumbled to a whopping 46 rubles to the dollar). This must have been a small fortune to the average Moscovite. But in Russia, of course, the world is divided into the haves and have-nots. Club Pacha was squarely in the former. We paid, and walking down the stairs, started grinning and high-fiving. Woohoo! We got in! This was going to be EPIC!<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VEmesRDqhfY/VG7iq541vJI/AAAAAAAARBA/Llz5sZeDIwg/s1600/SAM_0336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VEmesRDqhfY/VG7iq541vJI/AAAAAAAARBA/Llz5sZeDIwg/s1600/SAM_0336.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">American Airlines really should consider a new wardrobe</td></tr></tbody></table>We rounded the bottom of the stairs and entered what can only be described as a room of pure cool awesome. White swanky leather couch-booth things wrapped around the entire room. Every 20 feet or so stood a supermodel wearing, well ... a stewardess outfit, if it was somehow made of skimpy lingerie and corseted breasts. The dancers slowly writhed to thumping music. A few well-dressed men with large shiny watches and gold necklaces slouched at the bar. Far outnumbering them were gorgeous woman in long sparkly dresses, miniskirts, boots, high-heels, and lots of animal print. You know, the usual Ruskaya street-wear.<br /><br />I was a little taken aback by this. Perhaps I've just never been to the right club in the United States, but even at the best clubs it was very rare to see a ratio better than 50:50. Especially at the bar. If there were women, they were usually off dancing. What was it about Moscow and Russia that made this high-end club so different? An obvious answer was that because this was such a patriarchal society, the only opportunity for women was to find a rich husband. Or, maybe they were expensive "escorts."<br /><br />But I was a stupid foreigner, and it was not always wise to make such sweeping assumptions. So, instead I set out to meet some locals and have fun.<br /><br />It became obvious pretty quickly that the cool dudes at the bar wanted nothing to do with an American bumpkin. Even the ladies seemed a bit stand-offish. What? Didn't they know I was called Mr Hollywood?!<br /><br />So, rejected, I walked over to the bar and plopped down an arm. Someone bumped it. I turned to find myself face-to-face with one of the gorgeous dancers. This called for something quick and witty.<br /><br />"Um, ... Hi! Privyet!" I squeaked.<br /><br />"Hi."<br /><br />"Oh cool, so you speak English?"<br /><br />She shook her head. Crap. "Drink?" I asked giving the universal symbol for shots. She nodded. I got some lemon-drops for something like 1000 rubles and my first-born. We put them down, and then I grabbed my camera and said "Picture OK?" She gave a half-smile, and nodded "OK."<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bFSTUBU1jN4/VG7jfKgrZzI/AAAAAAAARBI/4PyfpocITrU/s1600/SAM_0362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bFSTUBU1jN4/VG7jfKgrZzI/AAAAAAAARBI/4PyfpocITrU/s1600/SAM_0362.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apparently I make a really good creepy guy!</td></tr></tbody></table>I snapped a pic, and she immediately waved goodbye and vanished. Hitting on the dancers. Well played Nemo.<br /><br />I made my way deeper and found myself entering a cavern that housed a massive dance floor. VIP booths ringed the balconies, massive disco balls glittered everywhere, vinyl records hung in the air aglow with colored lights. On a stage above it all were 3 dancing girls in stewardess outfits doing a routine that involved repeatedly sticking out their chests and butts in unison. Then something resembling a merman in a tutu began shooting weather balloons out of his arms. It was weird and wonderful.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RCFSiJRcS60/VG7kNLXsa7I/AAAAAAAARBQ/2VySntxGYxg/s1600/SAM_0349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RCFSiJRcS60/VG7kNLXsa7I/AAAAAAAARBQ/2VySntxGYxg/s1600/SAM_0349.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Velcome to Russian Airlines. Please take wodka and enjoy ride</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gNbZsUGZlqI/VG7n1BPlkhI/AAAAAAAARB8/qw-R9xLWEA0/s1600/SAM_0338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gNbZsUGZlqI/VG7n1BPlkhI/AAAAAAAARB8/qw-R9xLWEA0/s1600/SAM_0338.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never mind the tutu man-fish. What in the hell is the guy in the high-heeled white boots wearing on his head?</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DEr2jGo8DHo/VG7oQdSBgkI/AAAAAAAARCE/CU623ALwnFs/s1600/SAM_0351.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DEr2jGo8DHo/VG7oQdSBgkI/AAAAAAAARCE/CU623ALwnFs/s1600/SAM_0351.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Imagine all the girls, and the boys, and the strings, and the drums, the drums, the drums ...</td></tr></tbody></table>I had to agree. Pacha was indeed "very best."<br /><br />Feeling sufficiently lubricated, I descended the stairs and entered the madness.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QzpjMebGq3M/VG7lg5DMUBI/AAAAAAAARBg/Tr8MTSWctro/s1600/SAM_0345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QzpjMebGq3M/VG7lg5DMUBI/AAAAAAAARBg/Tr8MTSWctro/s1600/SAM_0345.JPG" height="280" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If someone gives you giant heart-shaped glasses, it's best to pay it forward</td></tr></tbody></table>All I can is that at some point I came into the possession of some clown-sized white heart-shaped glasses, which made me more friends than George Takei has on Facebook. After a particularly great song ended, the crowd left the floor and surrounded the bar for a breather. I decided on a whim to buy shots for about 10 of my new best friends ever in the entire world. They all cheered for me as the GDP of Somalia went down the hatch. My credit card was on fire, but there was too much fog from the smoke machine to notice. And then.... it happened.<br /><br />Safety Dance came on. Yes, that song from the 80's. "You can dance if you want to, you can be a friend of mine."<br /><br />To this day I'm not quite sure exactly how it happened, but I suddenly realized I was in the center of a dance circle, one hand behind my head, the other yanking my foot up to my butt in spastic jerks. Everyone was cheering. It didn't occur to me they could be cheering what they thought was a special Olympian. Inspiration hit. I couldn't help myself. And I began to jerk on the floor, doing something like the worm. If the worm had accidentally placed its mouth into an electric socket.<br /><br />The next day I woke. I tried to sit up, but the sheets stuck to my body. I realized my shirt and clothes were covered in ... "club-juice." My neck hurt. I took off my new pants to take a shower, and then noticed the backside had completely split open.<br /><br />At perhaps the swankiest club in all of Russia, I had apparently been doing the worm with my ass hanging out.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M5qyDoU_fz4/VG7maxNB5DI/AAAAAAAARBo/jpKzo2WV-jU/s1600/SAM_0361.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M5qyDoU_fz4/VG7maxNB5DI/AAAAAAAARBo/jpKzo2WV-jU/s1600/SAM_0361.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes that's right! Premium vodka in Russia is called "NEMIROFF!' I win!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-91863052362293621812014-11-17T21:58:00.002-08:002014-11-19T22:14:54.571-08:00Moscow by Night, Part I<div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Mh7ih_Xn83o/VGrbL78YTXI/AAAAAAAAQwU/_og7ohNCNh8/s1600/1295618160_01_ms_dancefloor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Mh7ih_Xn83o/VGrbL78YTXI/AAAAAAAAQwU/_og7ohNCNh8/s1600/1295618160_01_ms_dancefloor.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moscow nightlife is, um ... legend</td></tr></tbody></table>A night out in Moscow! This called for the one decent shirt I owned and ... oh splurge of splurges ...a new pair of black shoes. Now, when you are backpacking buying a pair of shoes is not something you do lightly. You have to consider where the hell those shoes go when you are loading up your backpack. Odd things come to mind like: can I use these shoes for clubbing AND horse-riding? But I was in Moscow, MOSCOW! and the night awaited. This was serious business. I did not want to get denied at the club because my old sneakers might still be carrying bits of <u><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2012/11/alone-on-steppe-chapter-9.html">Yak poo from Mongolia</a></u>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I gathered a buddy from the hostel and we headed to a bar halfway between our hostel and Red Square on the main drag called Pokrova. Moscow is actually pretty easy to navigate: it's laid out in a series of concentric rings with Red Square in the very center. Pretty much anything that is interesting is within the center ring, so that makes things easy. The metro runs around the center ring and a few lines criss cross through it along the main streets. In other words, it was a piece of cake to get from our hostel to the bar, a mere 2 stops.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">We walked in, sat at a table and ordered some beers. Across the room were two cute girls who gave us a look. Now, I have to admit, with my beard and long hair, I either looked like an Eastern Orthodox priest or a homeless man. I mean, compared to the standard issue Russian buzz-cut I could have been Gandalf.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">After our second beer, the two girls came over and sat down.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">"You speak English? Where are you from?" said the brunette with long hair and highlights.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VUeIwq1UA4w/VGraYsxXD-I/AAAAAAAAQwM/Tly99tvPigc/s1600/SAM_0244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VUeIwq1UA4w/VGraYsxXD-I/AAAAAAAAQwM/Tly99tvPigc/s1600/SAM_0244.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good to see locals are not frightened by the beard</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">I explained I lived in California. Apparently that was the correct answer. After a few more rounds, they grabbed us and took us downstairs to a club that was attached to the bar. They went straight to the dance floor and gave us a the "come here" wave. We looked at it each other. I mean, we were pretty much the kind of guys that created the white guy dancing stereotype. This called for shots. I waved over the bartender and tried "Cheetireh stopkoo pahjalsta". He raised an eyebrow and said in perfect American, "you want shots?" In a moment he returned with four evil-looking black things, smiled and said "These are very good, you will like!"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-utmpP72qPPI/VGrc-ju5cPI/AAAAAAAAQwg/BO1Vnm8pz_4/s1600/SAM_0086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-utmpP72qPPI/VGrc-ju5cPI/AAAAAAAAQwg/BO1Vnm8pz_4/s1600/SAM_0086.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do not fear what you do not know. Or, ya know, fear it.</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">We put them down. It was actually quite sweet, with a strong black licorice taste. And... wow. Very strong. A few drinks later, funky chicken dance restored, I tried to find the brunette on the dance floor. Instead I found myself face-to-face with a stunning tall high-heeled blonde (do I even have to say that anymore? High-heels are a given here). We started dancing. And danced some more. And things were looking promising when a large hand suddenly appeared on her shoulder. The hand belonged to a man with a face that could have just won the middle heavyweight on Ultimate Fighting Championship. He was perhaps in his late 40's, built like a tank, in a crisp soldier's uniform. But not just any uniform. Judging by all the bars and ribbons, this was a BFD. His face was twisted into a glare, which fell straight on me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh. Shit.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SlxNHrXeWyM/VGrdjmVkUoI/AAAAAAAAQwo/hHS5SizLISo/s1600/Octopussy_Berkoff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SlxNHrXeWyM/VGrdjmVkUoI/AAAAAAAAQwo/hHS5SizLISo/s1600/Octopussy_Berkoff.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And somehow I end up with General Orlov's girlfriend</td></tr></tbody></table>I put up my hands like "Who? Not this guy!" and backed away. He grabbed her by the neck and shoved her back into a booth at the far end of the bar. Then he sat down and commenced yelling spit into her eyeball. As he did this he kept glancing up at me. Woah. It was time to leave. Immediately. Tangling with an drunk angry official in Russia seemed about as smart as kicking a honey badger.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">I popped out into the cool night air, and suddenly felt very alone. It was very late and very dark. Garbage littered the street. Across the way a group of men stared at me. I walked faster, looking over my shoulder. The candy glow of St Basil's in the sun seemed like a distant memory. This was a different side of Moscow altogether. Then, up ahead, a golden glow appeared, with a crowd of party-goers lined up in front.</span><br /><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span><span lang="EN">Safety!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Never had I been so happy to stumble into a Makdonalds.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VOThr3lxdUQ/VGreDUWm95I/AAAAAAAAQww/-eeUVpIw08w/s1600/SAM_0092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VOThr3lxdUQ/VGreDUWm95I/AAAAAAAAQww/-eeUVpIw08w/s1600/SAM_0092.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's funny how shots make you grow a fedora and red sunglasses</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">It wasn't the last time I witnessed violence in Moscow. The next day after coming home from my tourist jaunt, I saw 3 men walking quickly in a tight group. They crossed the street towards me, walking up from behind. My spidey sense started going off, and when I turned around they pounced. But it turned out I wasn't the target. Just a foot behind me was another young man. Before he realized what had happened, he was on the ground and the men started taking turns punching and kicking him. This was happening literally right in front of me. I was in shock. But in a moment I felt a rush of emotions. Half of me wanted to bolt and escape, yet half of me couldn't stand to watch this man get beat to death. I wanted to rush in and help. I wanted to run away like a chicken. So I just stood there, frozen. I wasn't the only one to do nothing. People on the sidewalk quickly got out of the way. It was understandable, I guess, this instinct to protect yourself first before risking everything for a stranger. But it was cowardly too.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">The beating continued, with people continuing to walk by, and me frozen in indecision. It was terrible, seeing this man getting hurt and no one stepping in.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then the spell was broken. Someone honked their horn. In a moment, all the passing drivers started honking. The three men looked up and realized the gig was up. They ran down the street, turned a corner and were gone just like that. The police would never find them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I walked over to the man on the ground, but he was already up and walking away. Blood streamed down his face. And in a moment it was all over as if it never happened. Why he had been targeted no one would ever know.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My body was lit up like a Christmas tree, almost shaking. I walked back to the hostel, wondering what kind of place was Moscow. There were clearly gangs and mafia running around the city. And yet, there was no graffiti, anywhere. What an odd paradox. On the surface this an open welcoming capitalist society, teeming with gorgeous sights, dancing ballerinas, wonderful music, flower-filled gardens, glittering gold-domed churches and palaces. Hell, even the metro was a work of art. But yet, underneath it also felt alien. The hard-faced men all wore buzz-cuts and track suits. No one smiled or said hello in passing. There was an edge to the place, especially outside the main tourist areas.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />I spent the next day seeing the sights, but also looking a bit closer at the people who lived here. But my poor little brain came up with no grand conclusions. And I've found by far the best way to meet locals is to meet them intoxicated and dancing on tabletops. So, that night, I decided to step it up and hit a big-time night club. I took the time to wet my eyebrows, brushed out all the knots in my mane, and even decided to comb my beard. Best not to take chances.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />(to be continued ...)<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B2V_ZCsCIC0/VGrfjmy4H8I/AAAAAAAAQw8/P2Hmi7DhVP8/s1600/SAM_0137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B2V_ZCsCIC0/VGrfjmy4H8I/AAAAAAAAQw8/P2Hmi7DhVP8/s1600/SAM_0137.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh sweet Maccas, never have I been so happy to see you and your shiite burgers</td></tr></tbody></table></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-41009363880192091342014-11-13T20:47:00.001-08:002014-11-13T20:59:30.032-08:00Moscow Part III: Space Shuttles, Marvelous Metros<div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PwxhoghHg0s/VGV9yRCnmII/AAAAAAAAQt8/rkBWVnZbqf8/s1600/SAM_0384.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="356" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PwxhoghHg0s/VGV9yRCnmII/AAAAAAAAQt8/rkBWVnZbqf8/s640/SAM_0384.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the bridge over the Moscow River. A Russian fairy-tale</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">After getting my fill of Red Square, I walked south across the Moscow River on my way to some very exciting Soviet nerd candy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Halfway across the river, I came across two startling sights: first was the view back towards the Kremlin, which turns out to be the very finest in all the city. Absolutely amazing. And the second was also amazing in its own way: a beautiful woman in 3" red heels and skin-tight red dress getting picture after picture of her taken by her similarly clad friend. After awhile, they switched positions and more snapping away. This went on for the entire time it took for me to cross the bridge. If I've learned one thing, it's that some Russian women really, really love getting their picture taken. It was fantast- ... I mean, terrible to watch. Of course, it was a symptom of a patriarchal society that objectified women. But so did the Middle East and Latin America and of course most of the world including the US. What made it so striking here was how sexy the women were dressed, and of course their beauty. What was it really like to be Russian woman in this day and age? Were things any better than in the era of the Soviet Union? It seemed doubtful.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CwjRWVWq6qk/VGV_loi3dfI/AAAAAAAAQuI/7j6gD0M1Qx4/s1600/SAM_0397.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CwjRWVWq6qk/VGV_loi3dfI/AAAAAAAAQuI/7j6gD0M1Qx4/s400/SAM_0397.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There is no such thing as a boring church in Russia</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">Pondering these deep thoughts, I made my way into a pretty district with many more domed churches of all different shapes and colors. There were pink churches, blue churches, green churches, oh blimey; peach churches, orange churches, all gold domed and shiny. (With apologies to Dr Seuss.)&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span>Finally I made it to the weird park known as "Gorky". It was a mix of open green spaces, choreographed fountains, cheap-looking roller coasters, kitsch-selling booths, bums, beggars, and ordinary mothers with their kids. It was like a permanent state fair without the deep-fried oreos (so basically without the best part). But I wasn't here for any of this nonsense. I was here for the awesome and amazing Soviet Space shuttle, the Buran!!!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qXf6FHK9SB0/VGWAe15FspI/AAAAAAAAQuU/dcwbj7grL1E/s1600/prepa-pastir3-grand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="473" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qXf6FHK9SB0/VGWAe15FspI/AAAAAAAAQuU/dcwbj7grL1E/s640/prepa-pastir3-grand.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Buran sits atop the pad at Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan (1988)</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">I couldn't wait to explore the sure-to-be-amazing museum documenting the fascinating history of the space vehicle and hopefully find fellow Russian space geeks! Oh that would be so great to laugh with them about that silly cold war space thing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">I rounded a corner, and ... there it was. Just sitting by itself on the pavement, like a van down by the river. It was as if the Soviets had said, "You vant Shuttle? No? You? No? No one vant crappy shuttle? OK, we dump by river." I couldn't believe it. How unceremonious! Poor Buran!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XyHzk8TM4a8/VGWB03w2WBI/AAAAAAAAQug/ERLwES_hrK0/s1600/SAM_0478.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XyHzk8TM4a8/VGWB03w2WBI/AAAAAAAAQug/ERLwES_hrK0/s640/SAM_0478.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Buran, just sitting in a lot rusting away</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lriXEBYHDSg/VGWCJN6xmII/AAAAAAAAQuo/yZH8htx7388/s1600/SAM_0480.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lriXEBYHDSg/VGWCJN6xmII/AAAAAAAAQuo/yZH8htx7388/s640/SAM_0480.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><span lang="EN"><br /></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9JoxG5_7hbg/VGWCW94l4sI/AAAAAAAAQuw/bXMIy-ozHAw/s1600/SAM_0484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9JoxG5_7hbg/VGWCW94l4sI/AAAAAAAAQuw/bXMIy-ozHAw/s640/SAM_0484.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Mom can I keep it? Please???!"</td></tr></tbody></table>.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HzfeL_-bjEI/VGWCh53o-hI/AAAAAAAAQu4/BxbMmYy6fok/s1600/SAM_0483.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HzfeL_-bjEI/VGWCh53o-hI/AAAAAAAAQu4/BxbMmYy6fok/s640/SAM_0483.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span>You can walk right up and even touch it, there are no guards. I circled around in awe, which shortly changed to pity. It was falling apart and no one cared. In the US, cities clamored for these orbiters, and I won't forget the famous moment when Endeavor was paraded around the streets of LA to a special home at the California Science Center.<br /><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--LEqAnY9FCY/VGWDqFoyy_I/AAAAAAAAQvE/cKxNH6NaBw4/s1600/Buran%2Bvs%2Bshuttle%2Blarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--LEqAnY9FCY/VGWDqFoyy_I/AAAAAAAAQvE/cKxNH6NaBw4/s320/Buran%2Bvs%2Bshuttle%2Blarge.jpg" width="320" /></a>The Buran is a comically close copy of the US version, even down to the launch system with a main tank and two solid boosters. It was developed as a reaction to the American shuttle-- Russia's military was frightened by it's enormous payload capacity which was much larger than anything before. The Buran was intended solely for military purposes, as confirmed by Cosmonaut Oleg Kotov: "<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">We had no civilian tasks for Buran and the military ones were no longer needed. It was originally designed as a military system for weapon delivery, maybe even nuclear weapons. The American shuttle also has military uses."</span><br /><br />It was flown only once, successfully I might add, before the USSR dissolved and the need for it vanished. Sadly, the one that flew into space was crushed by the collapse of the hanger it was stored in at the Cosmodrome. I took a last glimpse at this relic of the cold war and shook my head.<br /><br />It was time to get ready for a taste of the infamous Moscow nightlife and so I made my way back to the metro. Perhaps one of the greatest relics of the USSR is the glorious metro system. The trains themselves are rusting old buckets which rumble along like they might implode at any moment. But the metro stations are pure magic. Every station is different. One has red mosaics of Stalin leading busty women with guns, another has stained glass windows like a church, yet another looks like the inside of a gilded gold orchestra hall, complete with glass chandeliers. Taking a few hours just to troll around the subway is one of the best things to do in Moscow. There is nothing else like it in all the world.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L6rYvNO-Qfc/VGWHPqI4OFI/AAAAAAAAQvg/-v7XsUMrFYs/s1600/SAM_0308.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L6rYvNO-Qfc/VGWHPqI4OFI/AAAAAAAAQvg/-v7XsUMrFYs/s640/SAM_0308.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stained-glass in subway... definitely not in Kansas</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UXocZoVT3JQ/VGWHXaXJYbI/AAAAAAAAQvo/nLd6D1cPPlQ/s1600/SAM_0315.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UXocZoVT3JQ/VGWHXaXJYbI/AAAAAAAAQvo/nLd6D1cPPlQ/s640/SAM_0315.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Opera?! Nope, subway.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cobR9GDSGH0/VGWHiUZRObI/AAAAAAAAQvw/cmUIDIO3OB8/s1600/SAM_0319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cobR9GDSGH0/VGWHiUZRObI/AAAAAAAAQvw/cmUIDIO3OB8/s640/SAM_0319.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No subway is complete without Red Soldiers marching under Lenin</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0SWRHeGuzO8/VGWIJ6-9DNI/AAAAAAAAQv4/xPO6iplXtp0/s1600/SAM_0321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0SWRHeGuzO8/VGWIJ6-9DNI/AAAAAAAAQv4/xPO6iplXtp0/s640/SAM_0321.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mm mmm that gold looks tasty</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Kremlins, churches, shuttles, blah blah blah. The best of Moscow was yet to come! Time to get my funky chicken loose and go clubbing...<br /><br /></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-26816519933483069712014-11-11T21:00:00.002-08:002014-11-11T21:10:01.412-08:00Moscow Part II: Kremlin Candy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jL0y3xw-Nbo/VGGpY7Q9HVI/AAAAAAAAQrc/w_VjSGLUX9o/s1600/SAM_0219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jL0y3xw-Nbo/VGGpY7Q9HVI/AAAAAAAAQrc/w_VjSGLUX9o/s1600/SAM_0219.JPG" height="640" width="608" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snapping postcard pics are just too easy with St Basils</td></tr></tbody></table>After getting the <b><u><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2014/11/moscow-part-i-red-square-delights.html">back of the hand of Lenin's tomb</a></u></b>, I realized I still had a ridiculous amount to see. And I would start with the confection of St Basils. Walking up to St Basils for the first time for a travel-nutbag like me is one of&nbsp;<i>those</i>&nbsp;moments. You know, like when you first walk up to the Taj Mahal or the Great Wall or walk into your <a href="http://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/07/02/random-thoughts-on-number-2/"><b>first pit toilet</b></a>. I had little thrill tickles running up and down my neck. Here I was, actually standing in front of the iconic sherbert-flavored temple!<br /><br />The Cathedral of St Basil's is in a strange location: it just sits by itself, all alone, in the middle of the street. And it was so ... colorful and weird and swirly and different! How did this happy-happy joy-joy whimsy end up here, in the heart of stone-cold conservative Russia of all places?!<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WybKk-WsnSI/VGGizZa__VI/AAAAAAAAQqo/iQPkeNSpBzI/s1600/Empress_Catherine_The_Great_1787_(Mikhail_Shibanov).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WybKk-WsnSI/VGGizZa__VI/AAAAAAAAQqo/iQPkeNSpBzI/s1600/Empress_Catherine_The_Great_1787_(Mikhail_Shibanov).JPG" height="320" width="250" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tsarina Catherine</td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bi_lj0JGWJU/VGGiZEo6hnI/AAAAAAAAQqg/Bz3pGR6GoNo/s1600/IvanFaceDetail-HigherRes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bi_lj0JGWJU/VGGiZEo6hnI/AAAAAAAAQqg/Bz3pGR6GoNo/s1600/IvanFaceDetail-HigherRes.jpg" height="200" width="165" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ivan reacts after learning his nickname</td></tr></tbody></table>The answer is that, once upon a time, Russia was nothing like its current post-Communist incarnation. Prior to the Bolshevik Revolution it was ruled by a line of Tsars going back to Ivan the Terrible in 1547. Peter the Great expanded Russia into a vast empire in the early 1700s, and the Tsar period culminated in a period of enlightenment under Catherine II. Yes, that's right, some of Russia's most wonderful buildings come from a female Empress. In St Petersburg especially, Catherine's feminine touch can be found in the pretty pastel pink and blue buildings, stunning gardens, and gilded palaces. I have loads of awesome posts coming up that soon! (St Petersburg is simply amazing.)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>St Basils, however, was way ahead of its time. In fact, it was ordered under Ivan the Terrible back in 1551. The architecture was unlike anything before: a swirling multi-hued bonfire rising to the heavens. A history of Russian architecture by Shvidkovky gushes it has "<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">... a strangeness that astonishes by its unexpectedness, complexity and dazzling interleaving of the manifold details of its design.</span>"<br /><br />I stared up the different colored onion bulbs and couldn't help but think of Willy Wonka. The first was undoubtedly green apple, the second blueberry cream, the 3rd, well, hmm.. maybe something that I coughed after my first taste of Russian herring.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Cms1CbcZeyI/VGGmdiIKrEI/AAAAAAAAQrA/4EZ2jqcDWDM/s1600/IMG_9519.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Cms1CbcZeyI/VGGmdiIKrEI/AAAAAAAAQrA/4EZ2jqcDWDM/s1600/IMG_9519.JPG" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crayon-colored ceiling panels</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PCMJz9HqrBs/VGGmo9YHHaI/AAAAAAAAQrQ/w_wyRREoJew/s1600/st.-basils-ceiling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PCMJz9HqrBs/VGGmo9YHHaI/AAAAAAAAQrQ/w_wyRREoJew/s1600/st.-basils-ceiling.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St Basil ceiling</td></tr></tbody></table>The cathedral is not one church, but 8 small churches around a central core. Wandering around these various rooms is interesting as each has a complete different personality. But nothing matches the absolutely stunning interior. There was the ornate&nbsp;<i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iconostasis">iconostasis</a></i>, the crayon-colored ceiling panels, and at the center of it all a Jesus looking benevolently from a red-blue-green starburst. Perhaps the most interesting feature is the striking blue mosaics in the arches. It was all so very very different from the dark goth pointy churches of Europe. So refreshingly bright and welcoming!<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UgdHm5RKHpg/VGGmkK_0Y4I/AAAAAAAAQrI/MfIIks5cdOo/s1600/323381347_8e67efa15d_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UgdHm5RKHpg/VGGmkK_0Y4I/AAAAAAAAQrI/MfIIks5cdOo/s1600/323381347_8e67efa15d_z.jpg" height="640" width="460" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Striking blue mosaics of St Basils</td></tr></tbody></table>Once back outside, I found myself ambling around the church, marveling at it from all sides. From the south, the sun lit up the domes with a warm glow. This was the angle to take that postcard picture, and the crowds with their cameras ogling for a selfie agreed.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YApeTZyGgRI/VGGqWEsCWJI/AAAAAAAAQro/LZ1I7F6RiHk/s1600/SAM_0372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YApeTZyGgRI/VGGqWEsCWJI/AAAAAAAAQro/LZ1I7F6RiHk/s1600/SAM_0372.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author, perhaps over-embracing his 10% Russian heritage</td></tr></tbody></table>It was on to the Kremlin itself. The word "Kremlin" actually means a fortified town center and many Russian cities have one. Of course, in Moscow the Kremlin is just a tad bigger. From Red Square you can see some golden domes atop something inside, teasing you with their sparkly bits. The red Kremlin walls are pleasant to walk around, surrounded by green lawns and flanked by the Moscow River.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MlSBsh8QCDk/VGGreHbpB5I/AAAAAAAAQr0/CtAGVFao6K8/s1600/SAM_0214.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MlSBsh8QCDk/VGGreHbpB5I/AAAAAAAAQr0/CtAGVFao6K8/s1600/SAM_0214.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Impressive Kremlin walls. Keebler elves man the parapets, I'm sure of it</td></tr></tbody></table>If you are a lover of churchy gold Russian domes, and count me on that wagon, the Kremlin interior is like a fat kid in a muffin shop. The Kremlin has 7, yes count 'em 7, churches and cathedrals and towers and each is anointed with gold dumplings. There were big gold domes, rows of little gold domes, and even some hidden domes that can only be seen if you stand in a special place and press L2 on your controller. (Make sure to always backpack with an Xbox controller for just these occasions.)<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Wqsgr-ogYpA/VGGsjMggeJI/AAAAAAAAQsA/nTbfKCp2bL8/s1600/SAM_0204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Wqsgr-ogYpA/VGGsjMggeJI/AAAAAAAAQsA/nTbfKCp2bL8/s1600/SAM_0204.JPG" height="371" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Secret golden dome stash</td></tr></tbody></table>I really am not sure why on earth the Russian Tsars needed so many churches. There was the&nbsp;Cathedral of the Archangel,&nbsp;Cathedral of Bad Pronunciation, Cathedral of the Interesting Assumption, Church of the Deposition of the Robe, Church of the Putting the Robe on the Towel Rack Before Taking a Shower, Ivan's Bell Tower, my personal favorite The Church of Big Baby Jesus, and finally the Cathedral of the 12 Apostles Playing A Game of Cricket.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--Ps2fwfEwuo/VGLoElET5ZI/AAAAAAAAQs4/o3M97dRkLd4/s1600/SAM_0194-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--Ps2fwfEwuo/VGLoElET5ZI/AAAAAAAAQs4/o3M97dRkLd4/s1600/SAM_0194-001.JPG" height="392" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kremlin Churchiness</td></tr></tbody></table>I looked high and low for the Church of Twerking Angels but apparently that one is still under construction. Most of the main buildings are closed for government business, and it is pretty funny to see blacked out cars with blue flashing lights coming and going, just like in Beijing. Ah, if only I was an important official in an autocratic country! How awesome it would be to watch traffic melt to the sides as I, the great and important bureaucrat Nemo, proceeded!<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M5qL5dWM3AU/VGLoyoOItNI/AAAAAAAAQtA/U6HgxYDoXhw/s1600/SAM_0171.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M5qL5dWM3AU/VGLoyoOItNI/AAAAAAAAQtA/U6HgxYDoXhw/s1600/SAM_0171.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ivan's Cock and Balls... er... sorry misread it. "Tsar Cannon" apparently</td></tr></tbody></table>Beyond a quick lookie-loo through the churches there really isn't much else to see in the main square. So it was off to the Armory, which has a ton of royal carriages, robes, jewels, crowns, Faberge eggs (!) (Russian rulers apparently loved them), and of course the token bundle of horrifically awesome medieval weapons. If you want to pay more for the Diamond Fund you can go see the famous Crown Jewels. But after tromping around the entire Kremlin and getting abused by the crowds in the Armory, I really wasn't in the mood to pay more and wait in another long line. I'm sure there are big incredible jewels in there but a man can only handle so much ABC per day. (Another Bloody Church/Castle/Crowd.)<br /><br />And so, after reveling in the Tsar riches of the Kremlin, it was off to see the real Moscow! More goodies await!<br /><br /></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-87597478894172775642014-11-09T21:16:00.000-08:002014-11-09T21:26:54.144-08:00Moscow Part I: Red Square Delights<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NY0QHnarO3I/VFhWM9jj7VI/AAAAAAAAQpk/Hw7ReI825ME/s1600/SAM_0438.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NY0QHnarO3I/VFhWM9jj7VI/AAAAAAAAQpk/Hw7ReI825ME/s1600/SAM_0438.JPG" height="312" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every park could use a sweet ginormous&nbsp;CCCP sculpture</td></tr></tbody></table>Spending a few days wandering around Moscow is a complete voyeuristic thrill. As with all large capital cities, there is a bonanza of things to see and do. Yes yes, of course one has to walk into Red Square, see the famous technicolor church of St Basils, and stroll under the shiny gold onion domes of the Kremlin. But these would have to wait. The most exciting thing on my itinerary had to be first. I took the glorious Moscow Subway (much more on that in a separate post) to Red Square and strolled south along the Moscow River. But before I got there, I was shocked to find a massive pirate ship in the middle of the river!<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2TugHtiv4hQ/VC4hfphfGMI/AAAAAAAAQFU/8S67DrpSKZQ/s1600/Peter-The-Great-Statue-Moscow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2TugHtiv4hQ/VC4hfphfGMI/AAAAAAAAQFU/8S67DrpSKZQ/s1600/Peter-The-Great-Statue-Moscow.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What the hell is that thing?!</td></tr></tbody></table>It is hard to describe how enormous this dark monstrosity is. It towers over the nearby buildings, with the pirate captain itself at least 150 feet high. What the hell was a pirate ship doing in the heart of Moscow?! Thankfully my Lonely Planet explained that was in fact Peter the Great, easily the greatest ruler Russia has ever had. At 98 meters, it is the 8th tallest statue in the world and towers over the skyline. However, Moscovites famously hate it. Why was Peter the Great, who disliked Moscow and moved the capital to St Petersburg, here at all? And why the hell was he atop a pile of sailing ships? The Wikipedia article is hilarious reading:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UQyfNNMDJ-o/VC4hpFTCXJI/AAAAAAAAQFc/K86Lyye84WA/s1600/160844389.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UQyfNNMDJ-o/VC4hpFTCXJI/AAAAAAAAQFc/K86Lyye84WA/s1600/160844389.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></a></div>"<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">The statue is allegedly based on a design [by&nbsp;</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Zurab Tsereteli</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">] originally intended to commemorate the 500th anniversary of the first voyage of</span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Columbus" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="Christopher Columbus">Christopher Columbus</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">&nbsp;in 1992. When an American customer for the project could not be found, it was repurposed with a Russian theme.</span><sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-washingtonpost_1-2" style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1; unicode-bidi: -webkit-isolate;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_the_Great_Statue#cite_note-washingtonpost-1" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;">[1]</a></sup><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">&nbsp;Tsereteli denies this story.</span><sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-8" style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1; unicode-bidi: -webkit-isolate;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_the_Great_Statue#cite_note-8" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;">[8]</a></sup><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">&nbsp;A separate, equally colossal statue of Columbus by the same designer eventually wound up in Puerto Rico after being rejected by various US cities, but, as of 2011, remains disassembled.</span><sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-9" style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1; unicode-bidi: -webkit-isolate;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_the_Great_Statue#cite_note-9" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;">[9]</a></sup>"<br /><br />So.. a Russian architect in bed with the Moscow politicians decided that he would take a ginormous, freaky Christopher Columbus statue, change the head on top to look like Peter, and resell it to Moscow. I'm sorry but that is hilarious.<br /><br />Anyway, after placing my eyeballs back into my head, I neared my target: the awesome Fallen Monument Park. At the entrance you are greeted with an array of whimsical statues -- old skinny men, girls, cartoonish animals, you name it. But I wasn't here for these. Finally after wandering around a bit, in a quiet corner I hit the jackpot: the greatest collection of old Stalin and Lenin statues in all the world! Stalin looking serious, Lenin grimacing in deep thought, Stalin smiling menacingly. Perhaps my favorite was the now headless Stalin body pointing boldly to ... a shrubbery. Oh Stalin! What were you pointing to back in your days of glory?! After the wall came down and the USSR crumbled, a lot of these statues were pulled down. And it seems quite a few found there way to this pretty sculpture garden along the Moscow river. Being an American strolling next to these bearded kings of Communism in the heart of Russia has a certain thrill--I felt like I was breaking some rules just being here.<br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fwDNDnNMEg0/VC4lAplujhI/AAAAAAAAQFo/8xn14YNSRxk/s1600/SAM_0439.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fwDNDnNMEg0/VC4lAplujhI/AAAAAAAAQFo/8xn14YNSRxk/s1600/SAM_0439.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why so serious Len?</td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-J0eDDOMywqM/VFhKABfQANI/AAAAAAAAQog/o-gr7vHCajE/s1600/SAM_0117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-J0eDDOMywqM/VFhKABfQANI/AAAAAAAAQog/o-gr7vHCajE/s1600/SAM_0117.JPG" height="400" width="261" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cmon quick! Which is Lenin, which is Stalin?!</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">Communist schadenfreude tank filled, it was time to hit the highlights.</span><br /><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span><span lang="EN">For most visitors to Moscow, the prime target is Red Square and for good reason. Of course I got the obligatory picture shaking hands with the leaders of the Soviet world. Upon walking inside the gates you are greeted with the massive Square itself. The north is flanked by the impressive ornate walls of the historical museum and pretty Kuzan church; the West by the Kremlin walls and the pickled corpse of Lenin; and to the East a ... well ... a high-end shopping mall called "Gum." Chew on that. (Welcome to Russian city planning.)</span><br /><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span>I immediately thought of one of those old photos of ICBMs being paraded right here in this very spot. A missile designed to obliterate America. And here was I, an American, warmly welcomed. It was all very surreal.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uCsjiQ6Pf_A/VFhPFxwLoaI/AAAAAAAAQo4/Jy2Be9IgzqY/s1600/723924-110602-aus-news-pic-russia-icbm-1965.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uCsjiQ6Pf_A/VFhPFxwLoaI/AAAAAAAAQo4/Jy2Be9IgzqY/s1600/723924-110602-aus-news-pic-russia-icbm-1965.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1965: The massive "Brezhnev Blockbuster". Lenin's tomb in background&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table>Down the street, yes, there it was! The candy-colored swirls of St Basils! Wow. I couldn't wait to explore it up close, but first things first. I had to go see me a pickled Soviet leader!!<br /><br />I waltzed up to the Tomb and was surprised not to find a line. Huh. And then I saw it: a sign in English stating that the tomb was closed on Sundays. I checked my watch. It said Sunday.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dn1g6p58gZ4/VFhRwMMGFSI/AAAAAAAAQpE/LA5kv8fsql0/s1600/lenin%2Bmummy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dn1g6p58gZ4/VFhRwMMGFSI/AAAAAAAAQpE/LA5kv8fsql0/s1600/lenin%2Bmummy.jpg" height="137" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing makes a shiny bald dome glow like mummy wax</td></tr></tbody></table>Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggh!!!!!!!!!!!!! Heartbreak. I couldn't believe it. I had already missed my chance to see pickled Mao in Beijing. I had arrived on a Monday, the one day it was closed. And now I would miss pickled Lenin for arriving on a Sunday. Something inside me died that moment. Or perhaps it was just mummified. Hard to say.<br /><br />(For a wonderful article on pickled Communist leaders (the list is surprisingly extensive) see this <a href="http://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/atlas-obscura-s-guide-to-communist-mummies">Atlas Obscura link</a>!)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CjBiPL4X4JI/VFhTSTgeBsI/AAAAAAAAQpQ/e1_fIGPvF6I/s1600/SAM_0129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CjBiPL4X4JI/VFhTSTgeBsI/AAAAAAAAQpQ/e1_fIGPvF6I/s1600/SAM_0129.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The awesome red goth State Museum dominates Red Square</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-63952660773822000822013-11-29T18:12:00.002-08:002013-11-29T18:49:14.731-08:00Moscow!<div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EOifrxU5u3E/UpKbIADwheI/AAAAAAAALoY/MNEzT9ZEpVc/s1600/Marx6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EOifrxU5u3E/UpKbIADwheI/AAAAAAAALoY/MNEzT9ZEpVc/s320/Marx6.jpg" width="219" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dream: Marx</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN">Moscow!! The seat of tsars, the nexus of the Soviet Empire, the still beating heart of a new paradoxical Russia. What wonders awaited in this enigmatic capital?</span><br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">I spilled out of the train station into the evening air, and looked up. Above me was a bright shining neon sign: MOCKVA. Through the back gate, I had snuck into the continent of Europe.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">It is so odd to stand here. The city that was the sworn enemy of the West for a good part of the last century, the backdrop for Clancy spy novels, home of Russian-accented Bond villains, and the occasional <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xenia_Onatopp">Xenia Onatopp</a>. Who can forget the old news footage of Stalin looking proudly over a goose-stepping Red Army escorting sickle-adorned ICBMs? Weapons that would be targeted at New York City, Washington DC, and Fort Wayne, Indiana.</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"></span></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D0Q1R7JHoBM/UpKbV5J0KlI/AAAAAAAALog/9Mb3cevc_Kk/s1600/1376020-stalin5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D0Q1R7JHoBM/UpKbV5J0KlI/AAAAAAAALog/9Mb3cevc_Kk/s320/1376020-stalin5.png" width="231" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The reality: Stalin</td></tr></tbody></table>But the wall had crumbled. In that heady time, Russia had experienced a brief <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glasnost">glasnost</a> of hope, their own version of the Arab Spring. Yet, just as it is unfolding in the Middle East now, the country had fallen back to autocracy. Why had Germany become a flourishing democracy yet Russia embraced a new-age strongman? Were the people not yet ready? Was it the lack of alternative institutions? Was it the collapse of the economy? Maybe it was all of these thing that led a man like Putin back to power.<br /><br />Was this was a vision of things to come for places like Egypt?<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hUfb34zMlFs/UpKfNI81e0I/AAAAAAAALos/y2ENNDKVTPA/s1600/800px-Communist_block.svg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="324" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hUfb34zMlFs/UpKfNI81e0I/AAAAAAAALos/y2ENNDKVTPA/s640/800px-Communist_block.svg.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red World: The extent of the Soviet world at its height in 1980, with orange countries targeted by the USSR for "socialism"</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xg4s4J3YvO0/UpKgySINNMI/AAAAAAAALo4/aFvi73_ul0I/s1600/6da101b6-127f-4afd-92dd-9f1f9d32f8da.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xg4s4J3YvO0/UpKgySINNMI/AAAAAAAALo4/aFvi73_ul0I/s320/6da101b6-127f-4afd-92dd-9f1f9d32f8da.jpg" width="221" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Face it: we miss our Xenia Onatopps</td></tr></tbody></table>Most tourists I had met on my travels seemed to parachute into Moscow's Red Square, snap some pics, and then head straight back to the airport. And then in the hostel or in the bar they tell me they think Moscow is just an average city, nothing special. Russians are rude. It doesn't feel safe.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">I'm not the greatest traveler in the world. But I have to been to quite a <b><u><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2010/12/best-cities-in-world-part-ii.html">few international cities</a>.</u></b> And in my humble opinion, Moscow is kickass.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">But why?</span><br /><span lang="EN"></span><br /><span lang="EN"></span><span lang="EN">It took me a few days after I'd left to puzzle out my feelings. As one wanders through a garden of decapitated Stalin busts, or walks up and lays their hands on the peeling paint of the knock-off Soviet Space Shuttle Buran, or gazes up at the glittering gold domes of the Kremlin, one cannot help but feel a complicated, powerful emotion. Part of it is the simple thrill of being here, of strolling free through the land of a former blood enemy. One of my first memories as a very young child was&nbsp;</span>my Dad telling me in absolute seriousness, as Reagan's image flickered on an old wooden TV, that we could all die any day. This was due to the fact that our house was located less than 12 miles from one of the largest military installations in the Midwest: Wright Patterson Air Force Base. It was a simple fact that when nuclear war rained down upon the Earth (and in those days it seemed quite possible), there would be an enormous wall of fire obliterating everything I had ever known. Who needs ghost stories as a child when you thought you might wake up to a mushroom cloud outside your door?<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PZXmA-EliBs/UplKD-wOdPI/AAAAAAAALpM/y6Rlxu060Fw/s1600/SAM_0438.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="624" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PZXmA-EliBs/UplKD-wOdPI/AAAAAAAALpM/y6Rlxu060Fw/s640/SAM_0438.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Da Comrade! Beard worthy of good Russian soldier!</td></tr></tbody></table>But it is more than just that. Part of it is the voyeuristic schadenfreude of walking among the crumbling remains of Empire. When I <a href="http://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/07/02/raiders-of-the-lost-lingam/">climbed through&nbsp;the glorious over-grown temples of Angkor Wat</a> or <a href="http://zebstar.wordpress.com/2007/01/26/welcome-to-the-jungle/">Tikal</a>, I could not help but feel a certain thrill that at one point in time, this very place had been one of Earth's great Centers of Power. In in every sense of that word, Moscow for the better part of a century was the Rome of a red world.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bJx53tp8lm4/UplKdX0rZYI/AAAAAAAALpU/Wcg05oEDQ_0/s1600/stalin.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bJx53tp8lm4/UplKdX0rZYI/AAAAAAAALpU/Wcg05oEDQ_0/s1600/stalin.gif" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Symbolism nyet?: Russian children atop the fallen dictator</td></tr></tbody></table>Like Rome, the USSR had collapsed. But unlike Angkor Wat or Tikal or Rome, it had all happened within my own lifetime! The ruins were fresher than the paint on an '85 Mustang.<br /><br />Finally, and this cannot be emphasized enough, what has emerged from the Communist ashes is as fascinating as any other place on the planet. Moscow is a city pulsing with energy, brimming with thumping clubs and flower-filled parks and beautiful ballerinas and mind-bending churches and astoundingly good street musicians.<br /><br />There is simply no other place like it.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Bi7Pg9fLfwo/UplQW7QBw4I/AAAAAAAALpw/4jg7vZ3d3ig/s1600/010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Bi7Pg9fLfwo/UplQW7QBw4I/AAAAAAAALpw/4jg7vZ3d3ig/s640/010.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clubbing at Pacha next to Red Square (from <a href="http://www.pachamoscow.ru/">www.pachamoscow.ru</a>)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-48096303962731213062013-11-19T00:20:00.002-08:002013-11-19T01:12:25.298-08:00Why Travel, Part 2: Human Conflict<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OcCnDLIGSGk/UosZeGgmvHI/AAAAAAAALns/fKfDSvIwIFg/s1600/SAM_6956.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OcCnDLIGSGk/UosZeGgmvHI/AAAAAAAALns/fKfDSvIwIFg/s320/SAM_6956.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2011/06/karst-opolis.html">Travel Zen in Guilin</a></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">In <b><u><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2013/11/why-travel.html">part I</a></u></b> of this multi-part series on Why Travel?, we explored the idea of what it means to Travel, and hinted at its mysterious ability to be a wonderful transformative experience. And also poked some fun at how one’s perspective changes (for better or worse) as one travels for longer and longer periods.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In future posts, I will muse on why traveling is very akin to a religious experience and even can give tantalizing glimpses of the meaning of life itself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But before we get into themes of unification, I need to address something that instead tears our world apart. Today in part II, we discuss what some call "evil": <b><i>the nature of human conflict</i></b>. We see the global effects nonstop in the news, in the form of battling religious ideologies, bickering political parties, racial tension, up to the penultimate cause of mass human suffering: war.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Z1QMGn-RgtI/UoreLq3ml_I/AAAAAAAALmc/WOG5P2mQEmg/s1600/thefirstchechenwar001-46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Z1QMGn-RgtI/UoreLq3ml_I/AAAAAAAALmc/WOG5P2mQEmg/s400/thefirstchechenwar001-46.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://englishrussia.com/2012/05/08/the-first-chechen-war-in-photos-of-a-nemenov/2/">Chechnya, 1996</a>. This happened only 17 years ago, when I was in college.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">But it also consumes our personal lives on very small scales. When I surf in the waves, I have witnessed at certain breaks the sight of someone on a stand-up paddle board sending regular surfers into a blinding rage. One time I saw a stand-up paddler, who has every right to access the public resource of the ocean as much as any surfer, get tackled off his board and beaten in the water for simply belonging to the wrong group. He had done nothing wrong. He had not even attempted to catch a wave. He had simply paddled out to the line-up. But it didn't matter: some of the other surfers instantly classified him as an “other”, an enemy. And that was all it took for him to get pummeled and nearly drowned.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/3wPXMfQfNiQ?feature=player_embedded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">There is a popular SUP hat that says: "Blame Laird"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My favorite example of this powerful human tendency to form strong bonds within a group, while simultaneously developing anger towards those outside the group, is the recent South Park episode, <a href="http://www.southparkstudios.com/full-episodes/s17e04-goth-kids-3-dawn-of-the-posers">Goths vs Emos</a>. The two clubs hate each other with a passion, with no recognition that to an external observer they look and behave identically. It is <b><i>only members of these nearly identical sub-groups that can tell the slight differences</i></b>, and it is these “small differences” that are the cause of enormous passion and conflict. I will come back to the idea of the <a href="http://www.doiserbia.nb.rs/img/doi/0353-5738/2007/0353-57380702153K.pdf">small difference</a>, which is an important one. (It was a root cause of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rwandan_Genocide">genocide in Rwanda</a>.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wswpJKhJczo/UosYo4xLL2I/AAAAAAAALnc/wcyatc9YAQ0/s1600/ffde80_567677.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wswpJKhJczo/UosYo4xLL2I/AAAAAAAALnc/wcyatc9YAQ0/s640/ffde80_567677.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But first, I want to step back and re-introduce a powerful idea from the book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Evolution-Everyone-Darwins-Theory-Change/dp/0385340923">Evolution for Everyone</a> by David Sloan Wilson&nbsp;(brought to my attention by my brother’s fascinating all-things-science blog, <a href="http://praxtime.tumblr.com/">Praxtime</a>). The idea is this: all groups, surfers, goths, races, religions, nations, and even the Kardashians, can be thought of as “tribes.” We have a genetic urge to join Tribes, which provide a sense of belonging and identity to individuals. But more importantly, in the ancient world being a member of a tribe provided shelter and protection from the harsh environment, predators, and the most dangerous thing out there: other tribes. The idea of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Group_selection">group selection</a> mandates that evolution favored the tribes that could better organize, defend, and conquer other tribes. Yes, that's right, we have been <b><i>genetically selected to be good at killing one another</i></b>. One could even argue this makes us inherently evil. This behavior has been well documented in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Goodall">Jane Goodall</a>'s famous studies of one of our closet living relatives, the chimpanzee (<a href="http://www.amnh.org/exhibitions/past-exhibitions/human-origins/understanding-our-past/dna-comparing-humans-and-chimps">we share 99%</a> of the same DNA), where warring groups commit mass murder of other tribes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7KfT5lMQsUU/Uoskv58X_kI/AAAAAAAALn8/9q2_vNuDujs/s1600/2691721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7KfT5lMQsUU/Uoskv58X_kI/AAAAAAAALn8/9q2_vNuDujs/s1600/2691721.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kiteboarding: clearly the next step in our evolution is flight!</td></tr></tbody></table><br />When one steps back and looks at human history, one can easily view it as an never-ending sequence of conflict. What is the Old Testament if not a documentary of one tribe killing and conquering many other tribes (only to get destroyed by yet another tribe)? War was how the Roman Empire was founded, Islam spread throughout the Middle East, and how the United States itself was created.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Is it such a surprise, then, that even in this modern era we have living victims of the Holocaust, never-ending conflict in Israel/Palestine, and the threat of nuclear war itself still hanging over the world? We were programmed to fight, to compete as tribes, and to hate the "other." The other can be obvious: a different skin color, another religion. But it can also be so subtle as to be nearly non-existant! In the Rwandan genocide, the conflict is generally described as a massacre by Hutus of Tutsis. But research has shown that in fact the "Hutus" and "Tutsis" were both of the same tribal lineage. There was absolutely no way to distinguish between them except for subtle changes in dress and behavior. <b><i>People will find differences, a reason to hate the "other", even when none objectively exist.</i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And I cannot help but think of my own life. The idea of the "other" being bad comes about from one thing: ignorance. Ignorance that is reinforced, distorted, and made stronger by other people within your own group. Harmless things such as how I identify with my beloved Ohio State Buckeyes and think other teams stink. How when I finally moved to California and met other transplants, we all patted ourselves on the back and looked down on all those left behind in "fly-over" country. And more harmful things, such as how Americans joke about the spineless French, or the humorless Germans, or the greedy Chinese. And of course, they love to call us "stupid Americans."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So we return full circle to the root of the problem: the infallible belief that <i style="font-weight: bold;">your</i>&nbsp;tribe is somehow superior to the others.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">What, then, is the solution? One can read books on other cultures, or be forced to mingle with "others" during college (which is one of the reasons it is such a powerful tool for opening the mind). But there is nothing quite so shocking and revelatory as being swallowed within another culture. Seeing them in person eat, work, play with their children, sing songs, dance, cry, laugh. Seeing them as not the "other", but as fellow human beings.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f8DujiT0OL0/UosX9Nr0CSI/AAAAAAAALnU/_YAn0ByOTeQ/s1600/SAM_1720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f8DujiT0OL0/UosX9Nr0CSI/AAAAAAAALnU/_YAn0ByOTeQ/s320/SAM_1720.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The famously pure clean air of Beijing</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2011/07/china-first-impressions.html">My first impression of the Chinese</a> was not a good one. I had flown through Beijing, where the air was so dirty the control tower was barely visible through the smoke. The airport security was rude, yelling at me and others in line. I was pushed around by mobs trying to buy tickets or board trains. An old lady even hulked up a loogie and nearly hit my shoe with it when she spat. I was constantly harassed for pictures and called a "hairy monkey" for my long hair and beard. Chinese even sounds harsh, with the sharp tones built into the language itself. And so it was, after my first week in China, that I found myself in a bar in the town of Lijiang, wondering how much longer I could take of these people. And that was when I found myself next to a table of drunken Chinese businessman. They had buckets of Buds, which were outrageously expensive (they were an import), mounds of delicious food, and were clearly out to raise hell. When they saw a foreigner, a <i>laowai</i>&nbsp;in their bar, what did they do?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">They waved their arms at me, escorting me to sit down with them. Buds were placed in front of me, plates of of food, and soon we were introducing ourselves with pointing fingers and broken attempts at Chinglish. They showed me how to pound blocks of wood to show applause for the dancers on stage, taught me some songs, and even managed to convince a group of girls to sit down with us. One of the older men, with a big grin, clearly indicated that I should try to flirt more and get some kind of ... action. Somehow, they managed to get me up on stage to see if an American could out-chug a Chinese man. (<a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2011/06/chinese-bar-night.html">I couldn't, much to the delight of the crowd.</a>) By the end of the night, we were arm-in-arm, walking down the street to their hotel, singing and slapping each other on the backs. They hadn't let me pay a single <i>kaui</i> for the entire night.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ikaTxPMrZoo/UosXcm1rAFI/AAAAAAAALnM/5RP_Gtfe7Wg/s1600/SAM_6446.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="396" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ikaTxPMrZoo/UosXcm1rAFI/AAAAAAAALnM/5RP_Gtfe7Wg/s640/SAM_6446.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One night in Lijiang. Somehow I ended up on stage in a beer-chugging contest</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">That next morning, the Chinese faces looked different to me. Instead of rude, impassive faces, I saw worried, hard-working people, stuck under an autocratic regime, uncertain about their future. And when another old lady spat out a big loogie, I smiled. What's so wrong about that anyway? Health-wise, it's better than swallowing. Maybe we were one the ones doing it wrong!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Seeing the "other" first-hand, the visual imprint of African girls in Tanzania joyfully dancing, the sounds of the bells of <a href="http://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/04/29/balicous-part-iii/">flowing Balinese dancers</a>, the <a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2011/04/forgotten-ones.html">begging dirty desperate urchins</a> of Delhi or Manila's slums, the <a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2011/03/izakaya.html">Japanese college kids in Manga-style clothes partying</a>, the sublime interior of the mystical Blue Mosque in Istanbul, the wonderful flavors of fresh Falafal off the streets of Aqaba, watching protesters face death to find democracy in Tahrir Square in Egypt .... these experiences shatter the barriers we erect in our minds of tribe. Of the other. Of the smugness that somehow my group, my religion, my nation is better than yours.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U1mjfT9ebtY/UosW3i1ksKI/AAAAAAAALnA/Zx_1wlgIJr0/s1600/SAM_0611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U1mjfT9ebtY/UosW3i1ksKI/AAAAAAAALnA/Zx_1wlgIJr0/s640/SAM_0611.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Go go Izakaya!! One Dumb Bum partying with the Anime crowd in Shinjuku</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I firmly believe that if everyone in the world was given the opportunity to travel the world for a year there would be no more war. How could there be? How could a dictator rouse masses to chant "Death to America!" when everyone in the crowd had a chance to milk a cow in Ohio and learn the Texas 2-step? How could a white supremacist want to kill black people after spending a week lounging on a beach in Belize with Rastafarians smoking ganja and learning how to "go slow"? And I truly believe that even Palestinians and Israelis would be able to find common ground if, like brothers who fought their entire lives as children, they were able to spend some time apart, see the world, mature, and come home with a fresh set of eyes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vpqxB169Yco/UosWci-qEBI/AAAAAAAALm4/fK8bbCKdHHQ/s1600/freeCOLOR.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vpqxB169Yco/UosWci-qEBI/AAAAAAAALm4/fK8bbCKdHHQ/s1600/freeCOLOR.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">There are other reasons travel is an "inherent good." When it comes to realizing that we all live on Spaceship Earth, and that we are destroying it during this very generation, nothing is more shocking and convincing that seeing it with your own eyes. I have watched climate change at work in the <a href="http://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/08/02/base-camp/">melting glaciers of Nepal</a> and <a href="http://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/09/10/day-5-mweke-hut-10200-ft/">Kilimanjaro</a>, and the dying <a href="http://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/05/28/l-bajo-and-komodo/">acidifying reefs of Indonesia</a>. I have seen the last of the wild Orangutans in Northern Sumatra, as they battle to survive a forest being burned for palm oil plantations. I have seen Chinese smog so thick that is is unbreathable. How can one deny climate change when they are a 1st-hand witness? How can one not be motivated to action when one walks across the mighty Khumbu Glacier, fed by Mount Everest itself, and finds it&nbsp;<a href="http://glacierchange.wordpress.com/2009/12/09/khumbu-glacier-decay/">reduced to a melted pile of boulders</a>?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cCM8TjH79I0/UosVh8TKNfI/AAAAAAAALms/NFPIdezDmPI/s1600/glacier.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cCM8TjH79I0/UosVh8TKNfI/AAAAAAAALms/NFPIdezDmPI/s1600/glacier.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rongbuk Glacier, fed from Everest, 88 years apart</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thinking of yourself as part of a tribe is not necessarily a bad thing. Just as humans are group-selected to hurt the "other", we are also programmed to help the "in-group." We are capable of incredible generosity, of service, and even self-sacrifice to our close friends and family. Thus, although we are programmed to be evil and fight "the other,"&nbsp;<i>we are also programmed to be good to those within our group</i>!&nbsp;The trick then, is this: <b><i>you must expand your notion of "tribe" to all of humanity</i></b>. The only way to do this is to open the blinds in your mind that you are not even aware of; to see the other nations, peoples, and races as they see themselves. To walk with them, eat with them, laugh with them, dance with them. That is when you achieve the realization, in a deep, visceral way that cannot be obtained from a book or movie, that we are all in the one tribe of human beings.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It is this transformation, this awakening, that long-term travel can make possible.<br /><br />An odd thing happened to many astronauts who returned from space. When they looked back and gazed upon the Earth, suspended in the blackness of the void, they encountered a view that forever altered their idea of humanity. It was coined the "Overview Effect."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/CHMIfOecrlo?feature=player_embedded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Overview Effect: if you haven't seen this short film, you must watch it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It is this idea of unity, of being one with all other people, of being one with all living things, that is the very definition of an enlightened being. And this is the subject of my next post.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-37583063111587051042013-11-07T00:07:00.000-08:002013-11-08T15:08:56.289-08:00Why Travel?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xyLVbH9u7kA/UntD3oqKAEI/AAAAAAAALls/LB3vggAl7pc/s1600/Ganesha+Wallpapers+14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xyLVbH9u7kA/UntD3oqKAEI/AAAAAAAALls/LB3vggAl7pc/s320/Ganesha+Wallpapers+14.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The elephant in my brain is, well, let's just call him different.</td></tr></tbody></table>I want to take a short break from telling travel stories to discuss the elephant in the room. Or perhaps it is just an elephant in my brain. One that has been tromping around in there, nagging at me for years since that time I took my first ever virginal 6-week stint abroad right after college.<br /><br />It's a simple question: Why Travel?<br /><br />Why?<br /><br />Why spend the money I could have used to buy a nice house, a nice retirement, a better car, the American Dream itself, and instead throw it away to bumble around the world with a wannabe hippy head-band?<br /><br />There are many simple, vague, cliched answers:<br />1) Travel educates you about other people and cultures<br />2) It educates other peoples about your culture (for better or worse)<br />3) It makes you "grow" as a person, aka "To find yourself"<br />5) It's freakin' fun and exciting dude. Duh!<br /><br />All these answers are true. But each of these simple explanations gently tug at something big. And when you pull on these strings, the curtain falls away and reveals a door to a deep nameless "thing", a light that shines in the eyes of all my fellow backpackers. We all feel it, we somehow "know" it. And yet, it is only now, after years of reflection, that I am starting to grasp the tip of what that "thing" actually is.<br /><br />To answer "Why Travel?" in a fulfilling, meaningful way, I will break up this essay into several posts. Each will ask a question, and then attempt an answer that builds upon the last. First,<br />1) What is meant by "traveling"? A solid definition gives us context. Next,<br />2) What are the root causes that separate cultures, cause men to kill one another, and even commit genocide? Tackling this fundamental issue leads to clearer insights about why travel is an inherent "good" in the world. Then,<br />3) What does it mean to be a "spiritual" person in this modern world where science has already displaced God as the reason we are all here?<br />4) Finally, what is our purpose in life, and what questions will we be forced to ask ourselves as we die? Yes, I will attempt to weave Death itself into my answer. Hopefully this silliness doesn't result in a wormhole which rips apart this blog, or the Earth itself.<br /><br />Right then. Let's see if I can sum up: I am about to attempt to explain the human condition, the nature of good and evil, and the meaning of life and death itself. Shouldn't take too long!! Let's get started.<br /><br />(PS: The answer <b><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phrases_from_The_Hitchhiker%27s_Guide_to_the_Galaxy#Answer_to_the_Ultimate_Question_of_Life.2C_the_Universe.2C_and_Everything_.2842.29">is 42</a></u></b>.)<br /><br /><b>What is the Definition of "Traveling"?</b><br /><b><br /></b>In previous posts, I have poked fun at the various "levels" of backpackers, which I modeled after the Tae Kwon Do belt color system. You can read&nbsp;<b><u><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2010/12/backpacking-belts-part-i.html">the full post here</a></u></b>. But to quickly summarize, here they are:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--iFYZsRmZnY/UntDoQ-nbXI/AAAAAAAALlk/yTW9EjIhapw/s1600/tae_kwon_do_belts1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--iFYZsRmZnY/UntDoQ-nbXI/AAAAAAAALlk/yTW9EjIhapw/s1600/tae_kwon_do_belts1.jpg" /></a></div>White Belt: "Well burn my britches and pinch my cow-tits, doesn't anyone here speak English?!" "Hey how come you don't take dollars you weird Mexican-speaking Euro?" "FML France has a McDonalds? Thank big baby Jesus I was about to starve."<br /><br />Yellow Belt: "I can't believe I'm actually in front of the Sydney Opera House. Let's take 300 different poses of me jumping and doing handstands for my Facebook profile pic!" "Woohoo, I just did a bungy jump in New Zealand! I am such an adrenalin junkie and world traveler, and guess what, did you know Aussies don't actually drink Fosters? I can't wait to write a 500 word Facebook post about that."<br /><br />Green Belt: "Isn't Lonely Planet so totally awesome?! We just met and it turns out we are going to all the exact same places at the exact same times!" "Woah, you're also going to the Full Moon Party? It's going to be like totally sweet, all 10,000 of my new Aussie BFFs from Ko Phi Phi will be there too!"<br /><br />Blue Belt: "Fuck the Full Moon Party. It's so fucking Lame. All you first-time Southeast Asian backpackers on holiday for 2 months are noobs. You have no idea the stuff I went through in Mumbai. Can't you see all my Indian baggy hemp pants and beads and how much cooler and wiser I've become in my entire year away traveling? Um by the way bro, can I get a lift to the Full Moon Party, I need to sell some beads to help me keep traveling. So, like..... nama-fucking-ste. And stuff."<br /><br />Red Belt: "Hmmm, this Travel Group on Facebook says that in order to better monetize my blogosphere and tweet-verse, I need to increase ad revenue through differentiating my travel brand." "Hello, Outside Magazine, yes I was wondering if you would be interested in helping become a sponsor in my charity campaign to install solar panels in villages in Northern Sumatra while saving the Orangutans. In exchange I'll provide excellent content and high-resolution photos for a feature. What's that? &lt;sigh&gt;. Fine, I am OK with sleeping at the Smiling Bedbugs Hostel. Sorry? &gt;^&lt; Sure, bunk beds it is. &lt;sob&gt;"<br /><br />Black Belt: "Hi, my name is Anthony Bourdain. I get paid bags of gold bricks to travel wherever the hell I want, to do whatever I damn well please. They could film me eating cockroaches while taking a dump on the camera lens and I would still get paid my bonus. Hmmm, actually, that's a great idea for my next episode!"<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nel1RGsfIIU/UntFn4i0jxI/AAAAAAAALl4/rBoy_3WMF5s/s1600/NoReservations_Coll4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nel1RGsfIIU/UntFn4i0jxI/AAAAAAAALl4/rBoy_3WMF5s/s320/NoReservations_Coll4.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anthony, I love you. I hate you though. No seriously, I really love you.</td></tr></tbody></table>All jokes aside, the point of this post is that a 1-week vacation to Hawaii, which can be a great break from work, is not the kind of travel I am talking about. The myth of the "American Dream" leads people to believe that this sort of vacation is some kind of pinnacle of life. But of course, the problem with the 1-week vacation is that it takes a few days to even get over the jetlag and start to unwind. You may be lucky to get a day or two in this relaxed state, where your life suddenly stops ticking by on a wristwatch. Maybe, just maybe, your mind drifts back to your college years, your big plans about how you were going to change the world. Or, more likely, they don't because you are happily tucking into your 6th Rum-Runner and are about to pee in the pool. Either way, just like that, you have to start thinking about going home, the bills, the boss, the kids, the errands. The clock begins ticking again. Your window of Zen slams shut just as it was about to open.<br /><br />As you will see in the next few posts, true Travel as I have defined above is over a long enough time period for that clock in your brain to slow down, become quiet, and, if you are lucky, for it to rest. And that is when surprising, amazing, and wonderful things become possible.<br /><br />Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-46406610162011505932013-11-05T23:51:00.000-08:002013-11-05T23:57:09.321-08:00Pamela Anderson: A Disclaimer[Editor's Note:]<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MVuGDR_t6pg/Unn0aMX5ZuI/AAAAAAAALlM/CWC2zn2WB60/s1600/Baywatch-tv-03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MVuGDR_t6pg/Unn0aMX5ZuI/AAAAAAAALlM/CWC2zn2WB60/s320/Baywatch-tv-03.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">&lt;insert gratuitous Pam Pic here&gt;</td></tr></tbody></table>Some of my loyal readers (all 3 of you!) know that I occasionally drop Pamela Anderson boob references into my writing. Now, I didn't intend to have this as a running inside joke. It came about organically because whenever I met Asian men of a certain age (over 35), as soon as they learned I was from LA they would ask me about Pamela Anderson. If I had ever met her. Did she still live in the sacred land of Malibu, jiggling as she ran down the beach? I cannot over-exaggerate the number of times this has happened. The reach of Baywatch at it's prime in the 90's was mind-boggling: it was&nbsp;syndicated<i style="font-weight: bold;"> in over 72 countries including Mongolia!</i>&nbsp;Believe it or not, for a brief time it was the number 1 TV show in the entire world. Even after I left Asia, I would get asked about Pamela in Russia, Eastern Europe, and the Middle East.<br /><br />To be completely honest, I don't even think Pamela Anderson is all that attractive. Her current Jupiter-sized boobs are ridiculously over-sized bags of air that match what is between her ears. But she is fun to write about because she is such a cartoonish figure, a real-life Jessica Rabbit. So, please don't be offended by this, or anything else I write. And if you are offended, keep reading because something else I write will hopefully offend you even more on the next post.<br /><br />Thanks and enjoy the blog!!<br /><br />One Dumb Travel Bum<br /><br /><br />Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-67947815136853377232013-11-05T21:49:00.002-08:002013-11-05T22:41:44.214-08:00Adrift on the Rails: from Asia to Europe<div class="MsoNormal">I was adrift on a spaceship, hurtling through space and time, detached from planet Earth. Outside the window the earth whirled by. A field, a town, a church. Then an almost identical field, town, and church, as if I was in caught in one of the those old Road Runner cartoons where the background is on repeat.<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Today was Day 6 on the Trans-Siberian. I was in Russia, but I was not IN it. Instead, my body was encased in this bubble train, neither here nor there, passing through but not touching, smelling, hearing, or tasting. At times I felt like I was on the Starship Enterprise and we were at warp.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yq_RinPOC8M/Unm7NeRo4mI/AAAAAAAALjQ/BBuWZwI1Hq0/s1600/tumblr_lm76btxQ5j1qbuylio1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yq_RinPOC8M/Unm7NeRo4mI/AAAAAAAALjQ/BBuWZwI1Hq0/s1600/tumblr_lm76btxQ5j1qbuylio1_500.gif" /></a></div><br />The stars slide by effortlessly, you see them pass, wondering what is going on in each of them... are there families there, living out their lives? What are they doing, this day you fly by? What would it be like to stop and visit, to eat with them, to hear their stories? 7 time zones, thousands of miles, millions of people living on the land I crossed on this journey, and I had met less than a handful.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">But as Jack Johnson said, these tracks don't bend somehow, and I got no time to get where I don't have to be...</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">Russian train stations are like nowhere else I have ever been. Freshly painted in Wizard of Oz pastels and white trim, they cheerfully welcome you to each new city.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WU3YDVCP79k/Unm8UtLf_EI/AAAAAAAALjY/gfwEQxe5PjI/s1600/SAM_0013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="404" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WU3YDVCP79k/Unm8UtLf_EI/AAAAAAAALjY/gfwEQxe5PjI/s640/SAM_0013.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ru-oiL9fAuQ/Unm8j34uoeI/AAAAAAAALjg/VTD0OWCzMr4/s1600/SAM_0019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ru-oiL9fAuQ/Unm8j34uoeI/AAAAAAAALjg/VTD0OWCzMr4/s640/SAM_0019.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1n-jr4JGcVA/Unm8tdQQTII/AAAAAAAALjo/oqugL6tNTXk/s1600/SAM_0024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="372" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1n-jr4JGcVA/Unm8tdQQTII/AAAAAAAALjo/oqugL6tNTXk/s640/SAM_0024.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Candy-cane stations of pastels and cream</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">I could not wait for the great moment when we crossed the Ural mountains and entered into a new continent: Europe! I watched the kilometer markers, set by our distance from Moscow, drop one-by-by until according to my guidebook we would break through the invisible barrier. 3-..... 2-..... 1-..... I trained my camera on the window, ready for a spectacle. And then..... a tiny little obelisk whizzed past, gone in a second. Whaaaat?! Was that it?! I looked at my camera, the stupid thing was blurred from the motion.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Huh. Welp, I guess I was now in Europe. So much for the mighty Urals, which turned out to be mounds of dirt. Calling them "hills" would be generous.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jfc-IDLPVbQ/UnnHP9q4HpI/AAAAAAAALj0/x-GmJq-jkqg/s1600/SAM_0029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="373" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jfc-IDLPVbQ/UnnHP9q4HpI/AAAAAAAALj0/x-GmJq-jkqg/s640/SAM_0029.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You have to look pretty close but it does indeed say &lt;=Asia, Europa =&gt; in Cyrillic.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Maybe I had secretly expected balloons to fall from the ceiling. At the very least, someone to look up and say to me, "Right-O Mate! After 6 months in the Orient, you are back in the good old Western Hemisphere!! Congratulations, ya made it you old dog! Welcome Home, here's your free Hot Dog and a real sit-down toilet. Enjoy!"</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><b>The Homicidal Sleeping Companion</b></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Instead, I looked across my cabin at a single old man, staring back at me with a little crazy in his eye. And then, he did something quite bizarre. Grinning, he pulled a velvet bag out from under his seat. He said something questioning in Russian, waiting expectantly. I had absolutely no clue what he meant. So, I just nodded and said, "Da."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">This was apparently the correct answer, and he began telling me a long story, all in Russian. Now, this is not the first time traveling where an old man or woman next to me on a train begins telling me their life story as I nod knowingly, not understanding a single word coming out of their mouth. But for me this is fun, because in my mind I get to make up whatever story I want. Here's the translation I came up with as he prattled on in Russian:</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">&lt;Russian-accent&gt; "You look like good boy. My name Boris. I come from long line of reindeer herder. My son not want to herd reindeer. This make me very upset. You know this feeling?"</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Me, nodding knowingly: "Da, da da."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">He perked up at this acknowledgement. "So I decide I go into Army. There I meet beautiful wife Olga. She has 3rd nipple, do not tell anyone zis!" He chuckled and waited. I laughed and squinted back: "Da, da" again nodding.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">He paused and leaned in, lending dramatic effect to this next part. "But, circus come to Boris' town, and Olga, she run off with knife juggler!! Can you believe zis??!" He raised his eyebrows and waved his hands. I gave my best pitying look.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">"So, I am on this train today to take my revenge! Ha!" The crazy look had returned to his eye. I didn't know what to say. He opened the velvet bag, and out came a huge knife with a hilt made of antler. My jaw dropped. This was way, way too weird. My fun little translation game had suddenly, scarily, come true. He jabbed the knife in the air a few times, then slowly slid it across his neck, as if slitting a throat. "Good knife for killing thief who stole my sweet chubby Olga!" I didn't have do much fake translating on that last one.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">I nodded again slowly. "Da."</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">This seemed to please him, and he handed the knife to me. The antler could have indeed been of reindeer. I gently held it, noticing the swirling patterns engraved in the antler, the sharpness of the serrated blade. And realized that this unhinged old man with a huge antler knife, who had just mimed slitting a throat, was my cabin buddy for the night. I had a few precious pills of Xanax that I used for sleeping on long flights and surviving horrible long bus rides. And took two.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin: 0px;"><div style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></div><b>Mother Volga</b><br /><div style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></div></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Soon we neared one of the great highlights of any Trans-Siberian, the crossing of the mighty Volga River! The Volga is steeped in lore for Russians; it is to Russia what the Mississippi is to America or the Nile to Africa. You may be surprised that it is not the Danube, but instead the massive Volga spanning 2300 miles that is the longest river in all of Europe. It was upon the corridor of the Volga that wars were waged, the Golden Khanate of the Mongols established, and the Russian empire built. Russian affectionately call it Mother Volga, and men supposedly tip their caps as they cross in salute.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BBuDPfksvyM/UnnQL8nWJKI/AAAAAAAALkE/VSQ_fxBah_M/s1600/SAM_0049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BBuDPfksvyM/UnnQL8nWJKI/AAAAAAAALkE/VSQ_fxBah_M/s640/SAM_0049.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To get a sense of the scale, note the tiny boat. It is actually a fairly large cargo ship.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">At the actual crossing, everyone swarmed the windows to witness the moment, and I joined them. It is not everyday you cross one of the great rivers of the world.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YtB7dwuj_3c/UnnVoIMle4I/AAAAAAAALkU/k_7Q27fjwXA/s1600/SAM_0066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YtB7dwuj_3c/UnnVoIMle4I/AAAAAAAALkU/k_7Q27fjwXA/s640/SAM_0066.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A glorious old Soviet steamer! Note the Red Star on the front, straight out of a Bond film</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aBgfU_gTRlU/UnnWQ8nGZII/AAAAAAAALkc/rFlke9zuBHU/s1600/SAM_0059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="460" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aBgfU_gTRlU/UnnWQ8nGZII/AAAAAAAALkc/rFlke9zuBHU/s640/SAM_0059.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You do NOT mess with the Russian train stewardess. They will break your neck with a single high-heeled kick</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iTTM-Cbay7Y/UnnWrWe-M5I/AAAAAAAALkk/hSJ7rvIOOdY/s1600/SAM_0072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iTTM-Cbay7Y/UnnWrWe-M5I/AAAAAAAALkk/hSJ7rvIOOdY/s640/SAM_0072.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home sweet home for an entire week</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-style: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>The Ouroborus</b></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2prgOs7Ltag/UnncUYP_vTI/AAAAAAAALk8/-tb5TZE_7fU/s1600/Ouroboros_by_zarathus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2prgOs7Ltag/UnncUYP_vTI/AAAAAAAALk8/-tb5TZE_7fU/s200/Ouroboros_by_zarathus.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another begin-ending</td></tr></tbody></table>Today was my final day. As we neared Moscow, the train began to fill with more and more people. Soon we entered suburbs, then satellite cities, and finally we entered the outer edges of Moscow itself. My crazy companion with the knife was now only a memory. So too was the shy mother with her cute little children, the drunken gun-toting soldiers, my bored babuskha waitress with the overly made-up face and enormous wobbly wig, the rude stewardess who came to (affectionately I hope) call me мальчик, or boy. Too soon, the train was elbow-to-nose with "busy-bodies," commuters, yapping on their phones and bumping into each other. The very people I had purposely left behind for so long. Did any of them know I had traveled here all the way from Beijing, on this very train?! Did any of them know the overwhelming emotion I felt at reaching this point? The man in a suit next to me looked up from his phone, examined my ripped clothes and beard, and shook his head.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Gone were the days spent in meditation as the movie played through the windows, plunking on the guitar, writing in my journal, falling asleep to the soothing clickety-clack of the old cars, snuggled in bed as an entire continent rolled through my dreams. The sun dipped, night fell, the train slowed. Then, it stopped for the final time. Outside was a huge neon sign: "Москва".</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Just like that, my great Trans-Siberian journey was at an end.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aWBIpQDzZNQ/UnnW6foUHrI/AAAAAAAALks/mV-AoPvLLkc/s1600/SAM_0078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="438" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aWBIpQDzZNQ/UnnW6foUHrI/AAAAAAAALks/mV-AoPvLLkc/s640/SAM_0078.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">End of the Line</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></div></div></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-76573504194506151622013-11-04T21:23:00.003-08:002013-11-04T21:43:59.021-08:00The Tale of the Kulov<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TNChmpxvCJg/Unh7Z7C8iVI/AAAAAAAALic/nNV4PIOpFIE/s1600/Trans-Siberian_Railway_travel_guide_-_4th_Edition_Large.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TNChmpxvCJg/Unh7Z7C8iVI/AAAAAAAALic/nNV4PIOpFIE/s1600/Trans-Siberian_Railway_travel_guide_-_4th_Edition_Large.png" /></a></div>Lonely Planet's guidebook loudly proclaims "Once hailed as the fairest jewel in the crown of the Tsars, the Trans-Siberian Railway remains one of life's great travel experiences", and especially how a "Trans-Siberian trip is <b><i>never dull</i></b>, not least because of the chance you'll have to interact with your fellow passengers over many days."<br /><span lang="EN"><br /></span><span lang="EN">I pondered this as I sat in my cabin, more bored than a dog in an airplane carry-on cage. My cabin was shared with a mother and her two children. She spoke no English, and my few attempts at saying&nbsp;</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Verdana, 'Trebuchet MS', Arial; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 17px;">Привет</span>&nbsp;("Preevyet") had been met with silence and averted eyes. This was the 5th day out of Irkutsk, the 2nd since leaving Tomsk. I had already wandered to the empty posh dining car for breakfast, and lunch, and dinner, and done it all over again hoping against hope I would meet someone. Anyone.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PSc-WiL0ZH0/Unh74q7r-KI/AAAAAAAALik/G89X-UgOZFg/s1600/images+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PSc-WiL0ZH0/Unh74q7r-KI/AAAAAAAALik/G89X-UgOZFg/s1600/images+(4).jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tricky devils to capture from the train</td></tr></tbody></table>I picked up my guitar, and after a few chords the baby started crying. Great Nemo. You made the baby cry. That's how crap you are on guitar. Outside the taiga tunnel had long since given way to cleared land, farms, cities, all whizzing by a little too fast to appreciate. Once in a while a glorious Russian gold-topped church would appear, but by the time I fumbled my camera out it was gone. This would happen again and again. Like watching a pot, the churches never came when I stood ready to pounce. Yet the second I dropped my camera one would whiz by. Curses, you churches, how you taunt me! Night fell, I ate dinner alone in the dining car again, examining with great interest the enormous powdered white wig on my babushka waitress. (Babushka, a Russian term of affection, literally means baby red-assed baboon. You will hear people call each other red-assed baboon all the time in Russia. Oh .... wait. I see here it actually means "grandmother." Sorry my mistake.) My babuskha handed me the check, her great wig wobbling back and forth as she walked away.<br /><br />I flip-flopped my way back to the cabin with the now sleeping family.&nbsp;I sighed.&nbsp;Where were the drunken vodka-fueled Russians I had been promised?! I raged silently to my Lonely Planet guidebook. I mean, at least give me some fellow backpackers who spoke English. Anything but this mind-numbing solitude.<br /><br />It was so bad I had taken to counting freckles on my arm. I was up to 3,000,000,000,000,023 when I heard a commotion outside our cabin. Then a slam. What was this?! I opened our compartment door and peeked out to see a Russian soldier slunk to the floor, cap askew, at the far end of the car. He looked at me, then shouted something in Russian and motioned for me to come to him.<br /><br />Oh shit.<br /><br />I quickly backed into the cabin, slid the door shut and locked it. In a moment, more shouting, then I heard the unmistakable sound of many boots tromping towards me. Someone banged on our door. The mother popped up and looked at me, startled. We both held our breath. Then, incredibly, my locked door clicked and then slid open.<br /><br />Three young soldiers piled into the car, reeking of vodka, AK-47's slung over their backs. They were high-school aged at best. The first nearly fell over and then grabbed the upper sleeper bunk to steady himself. Holy crap, I thought, these kids were completely shattered. The one I had seen on the floor, cap still askew atop his cropped blonde hair, pointed at me and began shouting again. The 2nd soldier tried to calm him, then unmistakably I heard the first soldier say: "Passport!" which turns out is pronounced the same in almost every language in the world.<br /><br />The mother slid further beneath her covers. Oh great, thanks for ditching me, cabin-buddy.<br /><br />I hesitated. "Passport!!!!!" he commanded. I fumbled into the hidden bag I slept with around my waist, and then handed it over to the drunk Russian soldiers, realizing that here in the middle of Russia, in the middle of the night, these soldiers could do whatever the hell they wanted with an American. To top it all off, they were completely, totally, smashed out of their heads. I thought about my happy place, in Pamela Anderson's cushiony fake bosom. (The young Baywatch Pamela, c'mon, I'm not a sicko!) Pamela, in your boobs I pray.<br /><br />Upon seeing my passport, they grew silent. My accuser widened his eyes and I am pretty sure I saw a hint of a smile. Then they left the cabin and began talking again in slurred Russian. The mother had by now completely vanished under her sheets. In the many years I have traveled, through border towns and shanties and back alleys, among <b><u><a href="http://zebstar.wordpress.com/2006/08/20/turban-skittles/">snake-charmers</a></u></b> and <b><u><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2011/04/forgotten-ones.html">pick-pocketing street urchins</a></u></b> and <b><u><a href="http://yoyonemo.blogspot.com/2011/03/tokyo-nights-part-v.html">Japanese Yakuza</a></u></b>, I can count on one hand the times I truly feared for my safety.<br /><br />Tonight was one.<br /><br />Suddenly the men burst back into the cabin, grabbed me the arms, and pulled me up. "Hey!! Hey, what are you doing?!" One of the men said a word that sounded like, "Obethiyana!" and they all laughed. They marched me down the hall and into their compartment, sat me down, and two of the soldiers plopped down one either side. My accuser faced me on the other bed.<br /><br />They all looked at me, stone-faced. I was scared shitless. He set a half-empty bottle of Kulov vodka on the table. Then he poured 4 enormous shots into paper cups. Finally, in English, he looked at me and yelled, "Drink!"<br /><br />"Drink! Drink!" yelled the other two soldiers like trained monkeys. They looked visibly angry. Now, Kulov vodka is perhaps the worst vodka in the entire world. It smells of paint thinner from 20 feet away, and could probably be used to melt uranium. I picked up the cup, then attempted to smile and belted out "Nazdrovya!" and choked down 3 huge swallows of Kulov gasoline. According to Lonely Planet, that Bible of Travel (which ye shall never take it's name in vain), this word is supposed to mean Cheers.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oIM04IZjbsc/Unh__Ff6qNI/AAAAAAAALiw/ak-ipRKwR-E/s1600/4642366702_05bfb00073_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oIM04IZjbsc/Unh__Ff6qNI/AAAAAAAALiw/ak-ipRKwR-E/s320/4642366702_05bfb00073_z.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You're kidding. Kulov the Terrible has made it's way to Mexico?!</td></tr></tbody></table>At this they all looked at each other in astonishment. Then, they all burst out laughing uncontrollably. The soldier to my right fell onto the floor and began slapping it. This went on for a few moments. I didn't know what to make of it. Luckily I had made it a practice to keep my phrasebook in my back pocket and pulled it out, frantically searching for the right word.<br /><br />The soldier across from me, wiping a tear from his eye, said, "Nazdrovya, no good. Za Vas, good!" They refilled my glass with another enormous shot. I raised it, and they followed suit. "Za Vas!" I proclaimed. "Za Vas, Amerikan!" they all shouted, and downed their paint thinner in a single gulp. I choked it down, tears streaming down my face as the acid burned into my stomach and it curled into a fetal position. I was already feeling drunk. At this they began cheering and one slapped me on the back. "Barun Amerikan!"<br /><br />And it dawned on me: they had just wanted to screw with me to get a laugh. They had been as bored as I had been, stationed here on this never-ending train to nowhere. The light bulb clicked in my brain, and I showed them the section in my phrase book on how to pick up chicks in English.<br /><br />They took turns practicing as I taught them gems such as "Vat nice boobies you has" and "Nice pants look great, especially on floor next to кровать (bed)!!" After each they would begin laughing again and slapping me on the back and pouring more sulferic vodka acid down our gullets. Then one of them began singing a song, and the others joined and tried to teach me. Like all Russian songs, it sounded both proud and sad at the same time. After the song, I felt sorry for these kids, serving out their time on a train far away from their families instead of going to university.<br /><br />And at the end of the night, the blonde kid took perhaps the greatest picture I have even had on my camera in my life. It is of me, pretending to be scared with a shot of Kulov, while the grinning soldiers on either side of me point their AK-47's at my head. I treasured that photo more than any other I have ever taken. To me it symbolized everything scary, surprising, and wonderful about traveling alone around the world. Little did I know that this one-in-a-trillion picture would be stolen with my laptop in Croatia in a few weeks, lost forever.<br /><br />The next morning I woke to someone chainsawing my brain in half. Actually, it turned out there was no chainsaw. It was just the remnants of the Kulov pounding its way out, trying to escape my liver.<br /><br />Trans-Siberian railway, you know what, you're all right. All the lonely boredom was worth it--last night was the craziest night I'd had on my entire year away. Spasiba! Now someone pass me the Advil.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oLUIKydRgTc/UniAlnINW9I/AAAAAAAALi4/q4rO7VbDNDE/s1600/railroad_tracks414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oLUIKydRgTc/UniAlnINW9I/AAAAAAAALi4/q4rO7VbDNDE/s640/railroad_tracks414.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-74360922242914821082013-11-03T20:58:00.001-08:002013-11-03T21:02:14.961-08:00The most interesting Bear in the worldTima the bear doesn't always drink beer. But when he does, he prefers <a href="http://www.baltikabeer.com/"><b>Baltika</b>.</a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://img.youtube.com/vi/FYhXDUt_Jsg/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://youtube.googleapis.com/v/FYhXDUt_Jsg&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://youtube.googleapis.com/v/FYhXDUt_Jsg&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div><br />This now famous viral video features Tima the Bear trained by Pavel Vyatkin. The trans-Siberian main line unfortunately does not pass through Pavel's hometown in Samara, Russia, which is further south. I would have enjoyed stopping off to meet the most interesting bear in the world.Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-69106221920709580602013-11-03T19:50:00.002-08:002013-11-03T21:38:44.641-08:00In Russia, Is Everything Possible!!I got up from the sticky floor, covered in dirt and beer stains. I had just attempted to break-dance, quite poorly. The man on the congo was beating the drum, the circle around me was cheering and clapping to the beat and laughing their heads off.&nbsp;How on earth could I top spinning slowly on my back and then falling down? And then, I remembered the greatest move I had ever performed: the worm. Things were about to get weird. But... let's start from the beginning...<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m9Juu3kCBgk/UncVfSN1hAI/AAAAAAAALhQ/tRgcfKrI4fs/s1600/SAM_0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m9Juu3kCBgk/UncVfSN1hAI/AAAAAAAALhQ/tRgcfKrI4fs/s640/SAM_0003.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Golden sunset in Tomsk</td></tr></tbody></table>I had finished my day touring through Tomsk, and asked the cute Russian working where the best place to go out would be. She mentioned a pub on the main drag, which sounded fine to me. I found my way there, walked down the stair-case to find a band railing out a fairly good version of Russian-accented Brown Sugar. A bare-chested man was banging on a big congo drum to the beat in the middle of the room, people were dancing everywhere. Wow! This was a great scene! I worked my way to the bar, pulled out my guidebook and ordered a beer. The kid working the bar looked surprised and in fairly good English said: "where are you from?"<br /><br />"I'm from California."<br /><br />"Woah, dooood! California that's so cool man!" Hearing someone try to pronounce dude like a stoner with a Russian accent was definitely a new auditory experience. He excitedly grabbed his female bartender, pointed at me. California was mentioned a few times. She pulled me a big frosty dark beer and put it down.<br /><br />"How much is it?" I asked.<br /><br />The man replied "Free dooood! California so cool dude. Do you surf?" And just like that I had my new tour guide for the night. He introduced me to some of his friends, they to their friends, and without quite realizing how it happened I found myself attempting to break-dance and do the worm in front of an entire bar of Russian college kids all clapping me on. Thankfully, just before my spleen popped out of my ear, another man came onto the floor who actually knew how to break-dance.<br /><br />I got up and went back to the bar, where I kept getting free drink after free drink. A crowd had formed to listen as the bartender translated the story about that one time I partied with LL Cool J in the Hollywood Hills and got pelted with panties because I was standing too close to him. They may or may not have known who LL Cool J was, but apparently it didn't matter. I had become a rock star in the heart of Russia! (Well, either that or the worst break-dancer they had ever seen.)<br /><br />"Nemo, we are going to the disco. You want to come? Drinks, hot girls, you will like!" He wiggled his eyebrows up and down at that last comment. We bumbled upstairs, he got on a motorcycle and it was clear that I was supposed to get on the back.<br /><br />A minute later, a gang of drunk Russians were flying through the streets in car and on motorcycle. And I was flying along with them, no helmet, no worries, no idea where the hell we were going. And I put my head back and started laughing like a crazy man. This night had turned into a movie.<br /><br />At the disco the gang pulled up and walked up the the gate. There was a long line around the block. The bartender turned motorcycle chauffeur walked up to the bouncer, pointed at me, and said something that included California and surfer. The bouncer looked me over, narrowed his eyes, then finally nodded. We skipped the line and went straight in. My tour guide looked over at me and confided, "Nice dooood? Haha!"<br /><br />The inside of the club was somewhat amazing for a small college town. There were 3 rooms, each packed with different music. I was introduced to a table where there were 4 girls dressed in skin-tight, cleavage-busting outfits and 3" heels, which I was starting to realize was a standard nightclub uniform in Russia.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IHYrL4O69Lg/UncXw_BjPuI/AAAAAAAALhc/dI0TnkPqSZ0/s1600/weekly-forecast1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IHYrL4O69Lg/UncXw_BjPuI/AAAAAAAALhc/dI0TnkPqSZ0/s320/weekly-forecast1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>None spoke a word of English. So of course I pulled out my trusty Lonely Planet phrasebook and went to the "Social" section. I pointed to the phrase that said "You have a beautiful smile." They laughed at my horrible Russian pronunciation, then grabbed my book and started looking through it. Now, I have read this section and it includes pick-up lines, and even a section on sex. For instance, there is an English-Russian translation for "Too hard", "Slow down", and even "Do you have a condom?" They found this page, started reading, and began giggling out-of-control. One of them asked me in broken English, "Do you vant dance?"<br /><br />I looked at my friend, who again wiggled his eyebrows up and down, then turned back to the girl.<br /><br />"Da."<br /><br />Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2973431150120446727.post-45183339038123395242013-11-03T18:58:00.002-08:002013-11-03T20:13:08.688-08:00College Town, US...er... SR!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NqEYziYz59g/Unbmhq3SRdI/AAAAAAAALfU/58ETjSlWEXU/s1600/tomsk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="376" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NqEYziYz59g/Unbmhq3SRdI/AAAAAAAALfU/58ETjSlWEXU/s640/tomsk.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Tomsk: deep in the warm cushiony bosom of Mother Russia</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I hadn't slept all night, I was exhausted, I was&nbsp;exhilarated.&nbsp;How on earth could I possibly sleep? It was early in the morning, and I had my head out of the window of a Russian train, hair flapping, beard tugging. The tracks wound like a slithering snake through a thick green conifer forest. Golden morning light streamed through the pine-scented trees, I watched in glee as the long sunbeams and shadows danced across the train. The air was clean and brisk, I gulped it in. We were headed to a small town off the main line in the middle of Russia, where there was little chance of running into another American. Like Bilbo Baggins, I was on my way to an adventure!</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NwCM9qGviXA/UnbqoS30T6I/AAAAAAAALfg/TreatTheQNw/s1600/SAM_0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NwCM9qGviXA/UnbqoS30T6I/AAAAAAAALfg/TreatTheQNw/s640/SAM_0011.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Russian train stations are always painted in pretty shades of pastel. Clearly the work of a female Tsarina</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I jumped a taxi to my hostel and planned my attack. Tomsk is known as a pretty college town, and I was greatly looking forward to a great night out with the students. After all, it was summer break and a beautiful Saturday. Would the streets be alive with frat-style campus parties? Would it be anything like, say, Ann Arbor Michigan with Adidas track-suits instead of khaki shorts?</span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But the first order of business, as it always is and always should be, was to grab my camera and tromp about the town to get a feel for the place. Like Irkutsk, Tomsk is full of pretty wooden mini-mansions that are remnants of the wealth of the White Russian flight to Siberia. In Tomsk as perhaps nowhere else in Russia, the art of "wooden lace" is taken to the extreme.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ndozK38Z8co/Unbuqd5W0eI/AAAAAAAALf0/GSBd0V0U4EI/s1600/525878767_58f95cd016_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ndozK38Z8co/Unbuqd5W0eI/AAAAAAAALf0/GSBd0V0U4EI/s400/525878767_58f95cd016_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Wood-lace is not as comfortable to wear as regular lace</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Believe it or not, wooden houses do not necessarily stand up very well to blizzards, termites, rain, snow, and the generally insane weather of Siberia. So unfortunately, as I walked through town and admired the houses, I couldn't help but notice how many of them were literally rotting apart. There were broken windows, sunken cross-beams, sagging foundations. And it was a shame, really. These were once gorgeous, artistic, colorful works of architecture full of history. Fortunately, a small handful of the very nicest and most famous houses were still maintained by the city for tourists.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4kofFWHvYc4/Unb-huCbmBI/AAAAAAAALgc/3yW07XxssBI/s1600/02_big.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4kofFWHvYc4/Unb-huCbmBI/AAAAAAAALgc/3yW07XxssBI/s320/02_big.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The awesome Dragon House!</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Once again my expectations of gray Soviet architecture were shattered. Not only were the pretty wooden houses set on leafy streets, but the broad main boulevards were lined with flower-filled parks, fountains, and classic university buildings.&nbsp;</span><span style="font-size: medium;">The main buildings were bright pastels and cream topped with art nouveau or art deco. It was all almost whimsical. I could not help but wonder if the feminine touch was a legacy of Tsarina Caterina.</span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The city was beautiful.</span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Now of course, there are still the obligatory Lenin statues, which seem to survive here and there. All the Stalin's have been yanked down, they are pretty hard to find. Which is not surprising given his murderous gulag campaigns. I&nbsp;couldn't&nbsp;help but wonder if the hulking stern gray Lenin statue in the very center of town was a way for Moscow to thumb it's nose at this town descended from White Russians.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GHBxpGw0gTk/Unb91BKv8TI/AAAAAAAALgU/99KJ9FHMEdA/s1600/img_2763_thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GHBxpGw0gTk/Unb91BKv8TI/AAAAAAAALgU/99KJ9FHMEdA/s320/img_2763_thumb.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peacock House is the prettiest, but sorry. Nothing beats Dragons</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The pretty Russian girl working the check-in at my hostel recommended I end my day tour by strolling the big park at the south of the city. And within moments of arriving, I knew it was my favorite place. The park is huge, with winding paths disappearing into tall dark groves. Within moments I was away from the noise of the city, leafy trees towering overhead, walking down a trail still covered in spiderwebs. No one had come this way today it seemed. And then, the trees parted and I beheld an incredible view across the river valley below. The sun was low, a few boats were floating in the river,&nbsp;silhouetted&nbsp;birds glided on thermals.</span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tomsk was a place I could have lived.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AXcTEUvdJmM/UncNCjZn88I/AAAAAAAALhA/lVQZwsaRGwI/s1600/SAM_9996.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AXcTEUvdJmM/UncNCjZn88I/AAAAAAAALhA/lVQZwsaRGwI/s400/SAM_9996.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love me some Russian churches. Gotta love dat Bling!</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wandered back to the center of the park to the sound of Russian electronic music blasting from an enormous lifted&nbsp;limousine. A gaggle of young Russian girls in unmatched bridal dresses and a few boys in tuxedos spilled out and wandered up to the giant World War II memorial statue that dominated the square. But they couldn't take pictures yet, because </span><b style="font-size: large;"><i>another</i></b><span style="font-size: medium;">&nbsp;wedding party was already in line waiting for a </span><i style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">3rd</i><span style="font-size: medium;">&nbsp;wedding party that was actually taking pictures. The whole scene was hilarious, watching these women in perfect hair and make-up and 4" heels standing awkwardly in a park, drunk and yelling at each other over the bass beats.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6Ptlf8yKnB4/UncMd-Q4iAI/AAAAAAAALg0/YE0RsiatzJI/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6Ptlf8yKnB4/UncMd-Q4iAI/AAAAAAAALg0/YE0RsiatzJI/s640/6.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A quite moving memorial of a mother sending her son off to fight the Germans. Not shown: 4 wedding parties waiting to take pictures with memorial in background</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I had learned in Irkutsk that Russians don't just take wedding pictures in one location. The entire party drives around town along with the other dozens of weddings going on that day to the 5 or 6 designated wedding picture sites. Of course, within the well-stocked limousines the party goes on all day. As I walked the streets festooned limousines honked and lights flashed and girls standing up in sunroofs waved and screamed while swigging bottles of champagne. All in all, I think the Russians have the wedding thing dialed pretty good! Who needs to wait for the reception when you can turn the day's picture taking into a pub-crawl?! Or perhaps they were just&nbsp;ecstatic</span><span style="font-size: medium;">&nbsp;that the hour-long orthodox wedding ceremony was over.</span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Everyone is in on the party, smiling and waving back at the limousines as they drive through. The atmosphere of celebration infects the whole town and I found myself smiling and laughing most of the day along with everyone else.</span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So when I left the park and found one of the waiting groomsmen suddenly walk over to a trash can and puke, I suppose it wasn't much of a surprise.</span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is Russia.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XaaHMlWCSuw/UncMAO7WdII/AAAAAAAALgs/bnGugGIC380/s1600/SAM_9998.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="443" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XaaHMlWCSuw/UncMAO7WdII/AAAAAAAALgs/bnGugGIC380/s640/SAM_9998.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There are so many weddings that the churches are booked. This was a parking lot wedding outside my hostel</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin: 0in 0in 13.5pt;"><br /></div>Nemo Taylorhttps://plus.google.com/107738777147693273145noreply@blogger.com0